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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


c^A^' 


i'^-'-'     \;y  /-r* /t  f 'fy 


THE 
THREAD  OF  GOLD 


By 
Arthur    Christopher    Benson 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  DUTTON  AND  COMPANY 

1907 


/    '  '    /    / 


Tfl 


Copyrighted  bv 
E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 

1907 


Ubc  Tknfcftcrbocftcr  press,  mew  J?otft 


PREFACE. 

I  SATE  to-day,  in  a  pleasant  hour,  at  a  place  called 
The  Seven  SpringSj  high  up  in  a  green  valley  of 
the  Cotswold  hills.  Close  beside  the  road,  seven 
clear  rills  ripple  out  into  a  small  pool,  and  the  air 
is  musical  with  the  sound  of  running  water.  Above 
me,  in  a  little  thicket,  a  full-fed  thrush  sent  out 
one  long-drawn  cadence  after  another,  in  the  joy 
of  his  heart,  while  the  lengthening  shadows  of  bush 
and  tree  crept  softly  over  the  pale  sward  of  the  old 
pasture-lands,  in  the  westering  light  of  the  calm 
afternoon. 

These  springs  are  the  highest  head-waters  of 
the  Thames,  and  that  fact  is  stated  in  a  somewhat 
stilted  Latin  hexameter  carved  on  a  stone  of  the 
w^all  beside  the  pool.  The  so-called  Thames-head 
is  in  a  meadow  down  below  Cirencester,  where  a 
deliberate  engine  pumps  up,  from  a  hidden  well, 
thousands  of  gallons  a  day  of  the  purest  water, 
which  begins  the  service  of  man  at  once  by  helping 
to  swell  the  scanty  flow  of  the  Thames  and  Severn 
Canal.  But  The  Seven  Springs  are  the  highest 
hill-fount  of  Father  Thames  for  all  that,  streaming 
as  they  do  from  the  eastward  ridge  of  the  great 
oolite  crest  of  the  downs  that  overhang  Cheltenham. 


vi  Preface. 

As  soon  as  those  rills  are  big  enough  to  form  a 
stream,  the  gathering  of  waters  is  known  as  the 
Churn^  which,  speeding  down  by  Rendcomh  with 
its  ancient  oaks,  and  Cerney,  in  a  green  elbow  of 
the  valley,  join  the  Thames  at  Cricklade. 

It  was  of  the  essence  of  poetry  to  feel  that  the 
water-drops  which  thus  babbled  out  at  my  feet  in 
the  spring  sunshine  would  be  moving,  how  many 
days  hence,  beside  the  green  playing-fields  at  Eton, 
scattered,  diminished,  travel-worn,  polluted;  but 
still,  under  night  and  stars,  through  the  sunny 
river-reaches,  through  hamlet  and  city,  by  water- 
meadow  or  wharf,  the  same  and  no  other.  And 
half  in  fancy,  half  in  earnest,  I  bound  upon  the 
heedless  waters  a  little  message  of  love  for  the  fields 
and  trees  so  dear  to  me. 

What  a  strange  parable  it  all  made !  the  sparkling 
drops  so  soon  lost  to  sight  and  thought  alike,  each 
with  its  o\\Ti  definite  place  in  the  limitless  mind  of 
God,  all  numbered,  none  forgotten;  each  drop, 
bright,  new-born,  and  fresh  as  it  appeared,  racing 
out  so  light-heartedly  into  the  sun, — yet  as  old,  and 
older,  than  the  rocks  from  which  it  sprang!  How 
often  had  those  water-drops  been  woven  into  cloud- 
wreaths,  through  what  centuries  they  had  leapt  and 
plunged  among  sea-billows,  or  lain  cold  and  dark 
in  the  ocean  depths,  since  the  day  when  this  mass  of 
matter  that  we  call  the  earth  had  been  cut  off  and 


Preface.  vii 

sent  whirling  into  space,  a  molten  drop  from  the 
fierce  vortex  of  its  central  sun!  And,  what  is  the 
strangest  thought  of  all,  I  can  sit  here  myself,  a 
tiny  atom  spun  from  drift  of  storms,  and  concourse 
of  frail  dust,  and,  however  dimly  and  faintly,  depict 
the  course  of  things,  trace,  through  some  subtle 
faculty,  the  movement  of  the  mind  of  God  through 
the  £eons ;  and  yet,  though  I  can  send  my  mind  into 
the  past  and  the  future,  though  I  can  see  the  things 
that  are  not  and  the  things  that  are,  I  am  denied 
the  least  inkling  of  what  it  all  signifies,  what  the 
slow  movement  of  the  ages  is  all  aimed  at,  and  even 
what  the  swift  interchange  of  light  and  darkness, 
pain  and  pleasure,  sickness  and  health,  love  and 
hate,  is  meant  to  mean  to  me — whether  there  is  a 
purpose  and  an  end  at  all,  or  whether  I  am  just 
allowed,  for  my  short  space  of  days,  to  sit,  a  be- 
wildered spectator,  at  some  vast  and  unintelligible 
drama. 

Yet  to-day  the  soft  sunshine,  the  babbling 
springs,  the  valley  brimmed  with  haze,  the  bird's 
sweet  song,  all  seem  framed  to  assure  me  that 
God  means  us  well,  urgently,  intensely  well.  "  JNIy 
Gospel,"  wrote  one  to  me  the  other  day,  whose  feet 
move  lightly  on  the  threshold  of  life,  "  is  the  Gospel 
of  contentment.  I  do  not  see  the  necessity  of  ask- 
ing myself  uneasy  and  metaphysical  questions 
about  the  Why  and  the  Wherefore  and  the  What." 


viii  Preface. 

The  necessity?  Ah,  no!  But  if  one  is  forced, 
against  one's  will  and  hope,  to  go  astray  in  the  wil- 
derness out  of  the  way,  to  find  oneself  lonely  and 
hungry,  one  must  needs  pluck  the  bitter  berries  of 
the  place  for  such  sustenance  as  one  can.  I  doubt, 
indeed,  whether  one  is  able  to  compel  oneself  into 
and  out  of  certain  trains  of  thought.  If  one  dis- 
likes and  dreads  introspection,  one  will  doubtless  be 
happier  for  finding  something  definite  to  do  in- 
stead. But  even  so,  the  thoughts  buzz  in  one's 
ears;  and  then,  too,  the  very  wonder  about  such 
things  in  the  world,  such  as  Hamlet,  or  Keats's  Ode 
to  the  Nightingale  J,  things  we  could  not  well  do 
without.  Who  is  to  decide  w^hich  is  the  nobler, 
wiser,  righter  course — to  lose  oneself  in  a  deep 
wonder,  with  an  anxious  hope  that  one  may  discern 
the  light ;  or,  on  the  other  hand,  to  mingle  wdth  the 
world,  to  work,  to  plan,  to  strive,  to  talk,  to  do  the 
conventional  things?  We  choose  (so  we  call  it) 
the  path  that  suits  us  best,  though  we  disguise  our 
motives  in  many  ways,  because  we  hardly  dare  to 
confess  to  ourselves  how  frail  is  our  faqulty  of 
choice  at  all.  But,  to  speak  frankly,  what  we  all 
do  is  to  follow  the  path  where  we  feel  most  at  home, 
most  natural;  and  the  longer  I  live  the  more  I  feel 
that  we  do  the  things  we  are  impelled  to  do,  the 
works  prepared  for  us  to  walk  in,  as  the  old  collect 
says.     How  often,  in  real  life,  do  we  see  any  one 


Preface.  ix 

making  a  clean  sweep  of  all  his  conditions  and  sur- 
roundings, to  follow  the  path  of  the  soul?  How 
often  do  we  see  a  man  abjure  wealth,  or  resist  am- 
bition, or  disregard  temperament,  unexpectedly? 
Not  once,  I  think,  to  speak  for  myself,  in  the  whole 
of  my  experience. 

This,  then,  is  the  motif  of  the  following  book: 
that,  whether  we  are  conquerors  or  conquered,  tri- 
umphant or  despairing,  prosperous  or  pitiful,  well 
or  ailing,  we  are  all  these  things  through  Him  that 
loves  us.  We  are  here,  I  believe,  to  learn  rather 
than  to  teach,  to  endure  rather  than  to  act,  to  be 
slain  rather  than  to  slay;  we  are  tolerated  in  our 
errors  and  our  hardness,  in  our  conceit  and  our  se- 
curity, by  the  great,  kindly,  smiling  Heart  that 
bade  us  be.  We  can  make  things  a  little  easier  for 
ourselves  and  each  other;  but  the  end  is  not  there: 
what  we  are  meant  to  become  is  joyful,  serene, 
patient,  waiting  momently  upon  God;  we  are  to 
become,  if  we  can,  content  not  to  be  content,  full 
of  tenderness  and  loving-kindness  for  all  the  frail 
beings  that,  like  ourselves,  suffer  and  rejoice.  But 
though  we  are  bound  to  ameliorate,  to  improve,  to 
lessen,  so  far  as  we  can,  the  brutal  promptings  of 
the  animal  self  that  cause  the  greatest  part  of  our 
unhappiness,  we  have  yet  to  learn  to  hope  that  when 
things  seem  at  their  worst  they  are  perhaps  at  their 
best,  for  then  we  are,  indeed,  at  work  upon  our  hard 


X  Preface. 

lesson;  and  perhaps  the  day  may  come  when,  look- 
ing back  upon  the  strange  tangle  of  our  lives,  we 
may  see  that  the  time  was  most  wasted  when  we 
were  serene,  easy,  prosperous,  and  unthinking,  and 
most  profitable  when  we  were  anxious,  overshad- 
owed, and  suffering.  The  Thread  of  Gold  is  the 
fibre  of  limitless  hope  that  runs  through  our  darkest 
dreams;  and  just  as  the  water-drop  which  I  saw 
break  to-day  from  the  darkness  of  the  hill,  and  leap 
downwards  in  its  channel,  will  see  and  feel,  in  its 
seaward  course,  many  sweet  and  gentle  things,  as 
well  as  many  hard  and  evil  matters,  so  I,  in  a  year 
of  my  pilgrimage,  have  set  down  in  this  book  a 
frank  picture  of  many  little  experiences  and 
thoughts,  both  good  and  evil.  Sometimes  the  wa- 
ter-drop glides  in  the  sun  among  mossy  ledges,  or 
lingers  by  the  edge  of  the  copse,  where  the  hazels 
lean  together;  but  sometimes  it  is  darkened  and 
polluted,  so  that  it  would  seem  that  the  foul  oozings 
that  infect  it  could  never  be  purged  away.  But 
the  turbid  elements,  the  scum,  the  mud,  the  slime — 
each  of  which,  after  all,  has  its  place  in  the  vast 
economy  of  things — float  and  sink  to  their  destined 
abode;  and  the  crystal  drop,  released  and  purified, 
runs  joyfully  onward  in  its  appointed  way. 

A.  C.  B. 

Cirencester,  ^th  April,  1907. 


THE  THREAD  OF  GOLD 


INTRODUCTION 

I  HAVE  for  a  great  part  of  my  life  desired,  per- 
haps more  than  I  have  desired  anything  else,  to 
make  a  beautiful  book;  and  I  have  tried,  perhaps 
too  hard  and  too  often,  to  do  this,  without  ever 
quite  succeeding;  by  that  I  mean  that  my  little 
books,  when  finished,  were  not  worthy  to  be  com- 
pared with  the  hope  that  I  had  had  of  them.  I 
think  now  that  I  tried  to  do  too  many  things  in  my 
books,  to  amuse,  to  interest,  to  please  persons  who 
might  read  them;  and  I  fear,  too,  that  in  the  back 
of  my  mind  there  lay  a  thought,  like  a  snake  in  its 
hole — the  desire  to  show  others  how  fine  I  could  be. 
I  tried  honestly  not  to  let  this  thought  rule  me; 
whenever  it  put  its  head  out,  I  drove  it  back ;  but  of 
course  I  ought  to  have  waited  till  it  came  out,  and 
then  killed  it,  if  I  had  only  known  how  to  do  that; 
but  I  suppose  I  had  a  secret  tenderness  for  the  lit- 
tle creature  as  being  indeed  a  part  of  myself. 


2  The  Thread  of  Gold 

But  now  I  have  hit  upon  a  plan  which  I  hope 
may  succeed.  I  do  not  intend  to  tiy  to  be  inter- 
esting and  amusing,  or  even  fine.  I  mean  to  put 
into  my  book  only  the  things  that  appear  to  me 
deep  and  strange  and  beautiful ;  and  I  can  happily 
say  that  things  seem  to  me  to  be  more  and  more 
beautiful  every  day.  As  when  a  man  goes  on  a 
journey,  and  sees,  in  far-off  lands,  things  that 
please  him,  things  curious  and  rare,  and  buys  them, 
not  for  himself  or  for  his  own  delight,  but  for  the 
delight  of  one  that  sits  at  home,  whom  he  loves  and 
thinks  of,  and  wishes  everv  day  that  he  could  see : — 
well,  I  will  try  to  be  like  that.  I  will  keep  the 
thought  of  those  whom  I  love  best  in  my  mind — 
and  God  has  been  very  good  in  sending  me  many, 
both  old  and  young,  whom  I  love — and  I  will  try 
to  put  down  in  the  best  words  that  I  can  find  the 
things  that  delight  me,  not  for  my  sake  but  for 
theirs.  For  one  of  the  strangest  things  of  all  about 
beauty  is,  that  it  is  often  more  clearly  perceived 
when  expressed  by  another,  than  when  we  see  it  for 
ourselves.  The  only  difficulty  that  I  see  ahead  is 
that  many  of  the  things  that  I  love  best  and  that 
give  me  the  best  joy,  are  things  that  cannot  be  told, 
cannot  be  translated  into  words:  deep  and  gracious 
mysteries,  rays  of  light,  delicate  sounds. 

But  I  will  keep  out  of  my  book  all  the  things, 
so  far  as  I  can,  wliich  bring  me  mere  trouble  and 


The  Thread  of  Gold  3 

heaviness ;  cares  and  anxieties  and  bodily  pains  and 
dreariness  and  unkind  thoughts  and  anger,  and  all 
uneleanness.  I  cannot  tell  why  our  life  should  be 
so  sadly  bound  up  with  these  matters ;  the  only  com- 
fort is  that  even  out  of  this  dark  and  hea^'y  soil 
beautiful  flowers  sometimes  spring.  For  instance, 
the  pressure  of  a  care,  an  anxiety,  a  bodily  pain,  has 
sometimes  brought  with  it  a  perception  which  I 
have  lacked  when  I  have  been  bold  and  joyful  and 
robust.  A  fit  of  anger  too,  by  clearing  away 
little  clouds  of  mistrust  and  suspicion,  has  more 
than  once  given  me  a  friendship  that  endures  and 
blesses  me. 

But  beauty,  innocent  beauty  of  thought,  of 
sound,  of  sight,  seems  to  me  to  be  perhaps  the  most 
precious  thing  in  the  world,  and  to  hold  within  it  a 
hope  which  stretches  away  even  beyond  the  grave. 
Out  of  silence  and  nothingness  we  arise;  we  have 
our  short  space  of  sight  and  hearing;  and  then  into 
the  silence  we  depart.  But  in  that  interval  we  are 
surrounded  by  much  joy.  Sometimes  the  path  is 
hard  and  lonely,  and  we  stumble  in  miry  ways;  but 
sometimes  our  way  is  through  fields  and  thickets, 
and  the  valley  is  full  of  sunset  light.  If  we  could 
be  more  calm  and  quiet,  less  anxious  about  the  im- 
pression we  produce,  more  quick  to  welcome  what 
is  glad  and  sweet,  more  simple,  more  contented, 
what  a  gain  would  be  there!     I  wonder  more  and 


4  The  Thread  of  Gold 

more  every  day  that  I  live  that  we  do  not  vakie 
better  the  thought  of  these  calmer  things,  because 
the  least  effort  to  reach  them  seems  to  pull  down 
about  us  a  whole  cluster  of  wholesome  fruits, 
grapes  of  Eschol,  ai:)ples  of  Paradise.  We  are 
kept  back,  it  seems  to  me,  by  a  kind  of  silly  fear  of 
ridicule,  from  speaking  more  sincerely  and  in- 
stantly of  these  delights. 

I  read  the  Life  of  a  great  artist  the  other  day 
who  received  a  title  of  honour  from  the  State.  I 
do  not  think  he  cared  much  for  the  title  itself,  but 
he  did  care  very  much  for  the  generous  praise  of  his 
friends  that  the  little  piece  of  honour  called  forth. 
I  will  not  quote  his  exact  words,  but  he  said  in 
effect  that  he  wondered  why  friends  should  think  it 
necessary  to  wait  for  such  an  occasion  to  indulge  in 
the  noble  pleasure  of  praising,  and  why  they  should 
not  rather  have  a  day  in  the  year  when  they  could 
dare  to  write  to  the  friends  whom  they  admired  and 
loved,  and  praise  them  for  being  what  they  were. 
Of  course  if  such  a  custom  were  to  become  general, 
it  would  be  clumsily  spoilt  by  foolish  persons,  as  all 
things  are  spoilt  which  become  conventional.  But 
the  fact  remains  that  the  sweet  pleasure  of  praising, 
of  encouraging,  of  admiring  and  telling  our  admir- 
ation, is  one  that  we  English  people  are  sparing 
ing  of,  to  our  own  loss  and  hurt.  It  is  just  as  false 
to  refrain  from  saying  a  generous  tiling  for  fear 


The  Thread  of  Gold  5 

of  being  thought  insincere  and  what  is  horribly 
called  gushing,  as  it  is  to  say  a  hard  thing  for  the 
sake  of  being  thought  straightforward.  If  a  hard 
thing  must  be  said,  let  us  say  it  with  pain  and  ten- 
derness, but  faithfully.  And  if  a  pleasant  thing 
can  be  said,  let  us  say  it  with  joy,  and  with  no  less 
faithfulness. 

Now  I  must  return  to  my  earlier  purpose,  and 
say  that  I  mean  that  this  little  book  shall  go  about 
with  me,  and  that  I  will  write  in  it  only  strange 
and  beautiful  things.  I  have  many  businesses  in 
the  world,  and  take  delight  in  many  of  them;  but 
we  cannot  alwaj^s  be  busy.  So  when  I  have  seen  or 
heard  something  that  gives  me  joy,  whether  it  be  a 
new  place,  or,  what  is  better  still,  an  old  familiar 
place  transfigured  by  some  happy  accident  of  sun 
or  moon  into  a  mystery ;  or  if  I  have  been  told  of  a 
generous  and  beautiful  deed,  or  heard  even  a  sad 
story  that  has  some  seed  of  hope  within  it;  or  if  I 
have  met  a  gracious  and  kindly  person ;  or  if  I  have 
read  a  noble  book,  or  seen  a  rare  picture  or  a  curi- 
ous flower;  or  if  I  have  heard  a  delightful  music; 
or  if  I  have  been  visited  by  one  of  those  joyful  and 
tender  thoughts  that  set  my  feet  the  right  way,  I 
will  try  to  put  it  dow^n,  God  prospering  me.  For 
thus  I  think  that  I  shall  be  truty  interpreting  his 
loving  care  for  the  little  souls  of  men.  And  I  call 
my  book  The  Thread  of  Gold,  because  this  beauty 


6  The  Thread  of  Gold 

of  which  I  have  spoken  seems  to  me  a  thing  which 
runs  hke  a  fine  and  precious  clue  through  the  dark 
and  sunless  labyrinths  of  the  world. 

And,  lastly,  I  pray  God  with  all  my  heart,  that 
he  may,  in  this  matter,  let  me  help  and  not  hinder 
his  will.  I  often  cannot  divine  what  his  will  is,  but 
I  have  seen  and  heard  enough  to  be  sure  that  it  is 
high  and  holy,  even  when  it  seems  to  me  hard  to 
discern,  and  harder  still  to  follow.  Nothing  shall 
here  be  set  down  that  does  not  seem  to  me  to  be 
perfectly  pure  and  honest;  nothing  that  is  not  wise 
and  true.  It  maj^-  be  a  vain  hope  that  I  nourish, 
but  I  think  that  God  has  put  it  into  my  heart  to 
write  this  book,  and  I  hope  that  he  will  allow  me  to 
persevere.  And  yet  indeed  I  know  that  I  am  not 
fit  for  so  holy  a  task,  but  perhaps  he  will  give  me 
fitness,  and  cleanse  my  tongue  with  a  coal  from  his 
altar  fire. 


I 


Very  deep  in  this  enchanted  land  of  green  hills 
in  which  I  live,  lies  a  still  and  quiet  valley.  No 
road  runs  along  it;  but  a  stream  with  many  curves 
and  loops,  deep-set  in  hazels  and  alders,  moves 
brimming  down.  There  is  no  house  to  be  seen; 
nothing  but  pastures  and  little  woods  which  clothe 
the  hill-sides  on  either  hand.  In  one  of  these  fields, 
not  far  from  the  stream,  lies  a  secluded  spot  that  I 
visit  duly  from  time  to  time.  It  is  hard  enough  to 
find  the  place;  and  I  have  sometimes  directed 
strangers  to  it,  who  have  returned  without  discov- 
ering it.  Some  twenty  yards  away  from  the  stream, 
with  a  ring  of  low  alders  growing  round  it,  there  is 
a  pool ;  not  like  any  other  pool  I  know.  The  basin 
in  which  it  lies  is  roughly  circular,  some  ten  feet 
across.  I  supj^ose  it  is  four  or  five  feet  deep. 
From  the  centre  of  the  pool  rises  an  even  gush  of 
very  pure  water,  with  a  certain  hue  of  green,  like  a 
faintly-tinted  gem.  The  water  in  its  flow  makes 
a  perpetual  dimpling  on  the  surface;  I  have  never 
known  it  to  fail  even  in  the  longest  droughts;  and 

7 


8  The  Thread  of  Gold 

in  sharp  frosty  days  there  hangs  a  httle  smoke 
above  it,  for  the  water  is  of  a  noticeable  warmth. 

This  spring  is  strongly  impregnated  with  iron, 
so  strongly  that  it  has  a  sharp  and  medical  taste; 
from  what  secret  bed  of  metal  it  comes  I  do  not 
know,  but  it  must  be  a  bed  of  great  extent,  for, 
though  the  spring  runs  thus,  day  by  day  and  year 
by  year,  feeding  its  waters  with  the  bitter  mineral 
over  which  it  passes,  it  never  loses  its  tinge;  and 
the  oldest  tradition  of  the  place  is  that  it  was  even 
so  centuries  ago. 

All  the  rest  of  the  pool  is  full  of  strange  billowy 
cloudlike  growths,  like  cotton-wool  or  clotted 
honey,  all  reddened  with  the  iron  of  the  spring ;  for 
it  rusts  on  thus  coming  to  the  air.  But  tht  orifice 
you  can  alwaj^s  see,  and  that  is  of  a  dark  blueness ; 
out  of  which  the  pure  green  water  rises  among  the 
vaporous  and  filmy  folds,  runs  away  briskly  out  of 
the  pool  in  a  little  channel  among  alders,  all  stained 
with  the  same  orange  tints,  and  falls  into  the  greater 
stream  at  a  loop,  tinging  its  waters  for  a  mile. 

It  is  said  to  have  strange  health-giving  qualities ; 
and  the  water  is  drunk  beneath  the  moon  by  old 
country  folk  for  wasting  and  weakening  com- 
plaints. Its  strength  and  potency  have  no  enmity 
to  animal  life,  for  the  water-voles  burrow  in  the 
banks  and  plunge  with  a  splash  in  the  stream;  but 
it  seems  that  no  vegetable  tiling  can  grow  within 


The  Red  Spring  9 

it,  for  the  pool  and  channel  are  always  free  of 
weeds. 

I  like  to  stand  upon  the  bank  and  watch  the  green 
water  rise  and  dimple  to  the  top  of  the  pool,  and  to 
hear  it  bickering  away  in  its  rusty  channel.  But 
the  beauty  of  the  place  is  not  a  simple  beauty; 
there  is  something  strange  and  almost  fierce  about 
the  red-stained  water-course;  something  uncanny 
and  terrifying  about  the  filmy  orange  clouds  that 
stir  and  sway  in  the  pool;  and  there  sleeps,  too, 
round  the  edges  of  the  basin  a  bright  and  viscous 
scum,  with  a  certain  ugly  radiance,  shot  with 
colours  that  are  almost  too  sharp  and  fervid  for 
nature.  It  seems  as  though  some  diligent  alchemy 
was  at  work,  pouring  out  from  moment  to  moment 
this  strangely  tempered  potion.  In  summer  it  is 
more  bearable  to  look  upon,  when  the  grass  is 
bright  and  soft,  when  the  tapestry  of  leaves  and 
climbing  plants  is  woven  over  the  skirts  of  the 
thicket,  when  the  trees  are  in  joyful  leaf.  But  in 
the  winter,  when  all  tints  are  low  and  spare,  when 
the  pastures  are  yellowed  with  age,  and  the  hill-side 
wrinkled  with  cold,  when  the  alder-rods  stand  up 
stiff  and  black,  and  the  leafless  tangled  boughs  are 
smooth  hke  wire ;  then  the  pool  has  a  certain  horror, 
as  it  pours  out  its  rich  juice,  all  overhung  with  thin 
steam. 

But  I  doubt  not  that  I  read  into  it  some  thoughts 


10  The  Thread  of  Gold 

of  my  own;  for  it  was  on  such  a  day  of  winter, 
when  the  sky  was  full  of  inky  clouds,  and  the  wood 
murmured  like  a  falling  sea  in  the  buffeting  wind, 
that  I  made  a  grave  and  sad  decision  beside  the  red 
pool,  that  has  since  tinged  my  life,  as  the  orange 
waters  tinge  the  pale  stream  into  which  they  fall. 
The  shadow  of  that  severe  resolve  still  broods  about 
the  place  for  me.  How  often  since  in  thought  have 
I  threaded  the  meadows,  and  looked  with  the  in- 
ward eye  upon  the  green  water  rising,  rising,  and 
the  crowded  orange-fleeces  of  the  pool!  But  stern 
though  the  resolve  was,  it  was  not  an  unhappj^  one ; 
and  it  has  brought  into  my  life  a  firm  and  tonic 
quality,  which  seems  to  me  to  hold  within  it  some- 
thing of  the  astringent  savour  of  the  medicated 
waters,  and  perhaps  something  of  their  health- 
giving  powers  as  well. 


II 


I  WAS  making  a  vague  pilgrimage  to-day  in  a 
distant  and  unfamiHar  part  of  the  country,  a  region 
that  few  people  ever  visit,  and  saw  two  things  that 
moved  me  strangely,  I  left  the  high-road  to  ex- 
plore a  hamlet  that  lay  down  in  a  broad  valley  to 
the  left;  and  again  diverged  from  the  beaten  track 
to  survey  an  old  grange  that  lay  at  a  little  distance 


The  Deserted  Shrine  11 

among  the  fields.  Turning  a  corner  by  some  cot- 
tages, I  saw  a  small  ancient  chapel,  of  brown  weath- 
ered stone,  covered  with  orange  lichen,  the  roof  of 
rough  stone  tiles.  In  the  narrow  graveyard  round 
it,  the  grass  grew  long  and  rank;  the  gatewaj^  was 
choked  by  briars.  I  could  see  that  the  windows  of 
the  tiny  building  were  broken.  I  have  never  be- 
fore in  England  seen  a  derelict  church,  and  I 
clambered  over  the  wall  to  examine  it  more  closely. 
It  stood  very  beautifully ;  from  the  low  wall  of  the 
graveyard,  on  the  further  side,  you  could  look  over 
a  wide  extent  of  rich  water-meadows,  fed  bj^  full 
streams;  there  was  much  ranunculus  in  flower  on 
the  edges  of  the  watercourses,  and  a  few  cattle 
moved  leisurely  about  with  a  peaceful  air.  Far 
over  the  meadows,  out  of  a  small  grove  of  trees,  a 
manor-house  held  up  its  enquiring  chimnej^s.  The 
door  of  the  chapel  was  open,  and  I  have  seldom 
seen  a  more  pitiful  sight  than  it  revealed.  The 
roof  within  was  of  a  plain  and  beautiful  design, 
with  carved  bosses,  and  beams  of  some  dark  wood. 
The  chapel  was  fitted  with  oak  Jacobean  wood- 
work, pews,  a  reading-desk,  and  a  little  screen.  At 
the  west  was  a  tiny  balustraded  gallery.  But  the 
whole  was  a  scene  of  wretched  confusion.  The 
woodwork  was  mouldering,  the  red  cloth  of  the  pul- 
pit hung  raggedly  down,  the  leaves  of  the  great 
prayer-book  fluttered  about  the  pavement,  in  the 


12  The  Thread  of  Gold 

draught  from  the  door.  The  whole  place  was 
gnawed  by  rats  and  shockingly  befouled  by  birds; 
there  was  a  litter  of  rotting  nests  upon  the  altar 
itself.  Yet  in  the  walls  were  old  memorial  tablets, 
and  the  passage  of  the  nave  was  paved  with  lettered 
graves.     It  brought  back  to  me  the  beautiful  lines — 

"  En    ara,    ramis    ilicis    obsita, 
Quae  sacra  Chryses  nomina  fert  deae, 
Neglecta;  jamdudum  sepultus 
Aedituus  jacet  et  sacerdos." 

Outside  the  sun  fell  peacefully  on  the  mellow  walls, 
and  the  starlings  twittered  in  the  roof;  but  inside 
the  deserted  shrine  there  was  a  sense  of  broken 
trust,  of  old  memories  despised,  of  the  altar  of  God 
shamed  and  dishonoured.  It  was  a  pious  design 
to  build  the  little  chapel  there  for  the  secluded  ham- 
let; and  loving  thought  and  care  had  gone  to  mak- 
ing the  place  seemly  and  beautiful.  The  very 
stone  of  the  wall,  and  the  beam  of  the  roof  cried  out 
against  the  hard  and  untender  usage  that  had  laid 
the  sanctuarj'-  low.  Here  children  had  been  bap- 
tized, tender  marriage  vows  plighted,  and  the  dead 
laid  to  rest;  and  this  was  the  end.  I  turned  away 
with  a  sense  of  deep  sadness;  the  very  sunshine 
seemed  blurred  with  a  shadow  of  dreariness  and 
shame. 

Then  I  made  my  way,  by  a  stony  road,  towards 


The  Deserted  Shrine  13 

the  manor-house;  and  presently  could  see  its  gables 
at  the  end  of  a  pleasant  avenue  of  limes;  but  no 
track  led  thither.  The  gate  was  wired  up,  and  the 
drive  overgrown  with  grass.  Soon,  however,  I 
found  a  farm-road  which  led  up  to  the  house  from 
the  village.  On  the  left  of  the  manor  lay  prosper- 
ous barns  and  byres,  full  of  sleek  pigs  and  busy 
crested  fowls.  The  teams  came  clanking  home 
across  the  water-meadows.  The  house  itself  be- 
came more  and  more  beautiful  as  I  approached.  It 
was  surrounded  by  a  moat,  and  here,  close  at  hand, 
stood  another  ancient  chapel,  in  seemly  repair.  All 
round  the  house  grew  dense  thickets  of  sprawling 
laurels,  which  rose  in  luxuriance  from  the  edge  of 
the  water.  Then  I  crossed  a  little  bridge  with  a 
broken  parapet ;  and  in  front  of  me  stood  the  house 
itself.  I  have  seldom  seen  a  more  perfectly  pro- 
portioned or  exquisitely  coloured  building.  There 
were  three  gables  in  the  front,  the  central  one  hold- 
ing a  beautiful  oriel  window,  with  a  fine  oak  door 
below.  The  whole  was  built  of  a  pale  red  brick, 
covered  with  a  grey  lichen  that  cast  a  shimmering 
light  over  the  front.  Tall  chimneys  of  solid  grace 
rose  from  a  stone-shingled  roof.  The  coigns, 
parapets  and  mullions  were  all  of  a  delicately- 
tinted  orange  stone.  To  the  right  lay  a  big  walled 
garden,  full  of  flowers  growing  with  careless  rich- 
ness, the  whole  bounded  by  the  moat,  and  looking 


14  The  THREiVD  of  Gold 

out  across  the  broad  green  water-meadows,  beyond 
which  the  low  hills  rose  softly  in  gentle  curves  and 
dingles. 

A  whole  companj'^  of  amiable  dogs,  spaniels  and 
terriers,  came  out  with  an  effusive  welcome;  a  big 
black  yard-dog,  after  a  loud  protesting  bark, 
joined  in  the  civilities.  And  there  I  sat  down  in 
the  warm  sun,  to  drink  in  the  beauty  of  the  scene, 
while  the  moor-hens  cried  plaintiveh^  in  the  moat, 
and  the  dogs  disposed  themselves  at  my  feet.  The 
man  who  designed  this  old  place  must  have  had  a 
wonderful  sense  of  the  beaut}^  of  proportion,  the 
charm  of  austere  simplicity.  Generation  after 
generation  must  have  loved  the  gentle  dignified 
house,  Avith  its  narrow  casements,  its  high  rooms. 
Though  the  name  of  the  house,  though  the  tale  of 
its  dwellers  was  unkno^Mi  to  me,  I  felt  the  appeal 
of  the  old  associations  that  must  have  centred  about 
it.  The  whole  air,  that  quiet  afternoon,  seemed 
full  of  the  calling  of  forgotten  voices,  and  dead 
faces  looked  out  from  the  closed  lattices.  So  near 
to  my  heart  came  the  spirit  of  the  ancient  house, 
that,  as  I  mused,  I  felt  as  though  even  I  myself 
had  made  a  part  of  its  past,  and  as  though  I  were 
returning  from  battling  with  the  far-off  world  to 
the  home  of  childhood.  The  house  seemed  to  re- 
gard me  wdth  a  mournful  and  tender  gaze,  as 
though  it  knew  that  I  loved  it,  and  would  fain  utter 


The  !Manor-House  15 

its  secrets  in  a  friendly  ear.  Is  it  strange  that  a 
thing  of  man's  construction  should  have  so  wistful 
yet  so  direct  a  message  for  the  spirit?  Well,  I 
hardly  knoAv  what  it  was  that  it  spoke  of ;  but  I  felt 
the  care  and  love  that  had  gone  to  the  making  of  it, 
and  the  dignity  that  it  had  won  from  rain  and  sun 
and  the  kindly  hand  of  Xature;  it  spoke  of  hope 
and  brightness,  of  j'outh  and  joy;  and  told  me,  too, 
that  all  things  were  passing  away,  that  even  the 
house  itself,  though  it  could  outlive  a  few  restless 
generations,  was  indeed  debita  morti,  and  bowed 
itself  to  its  fall. 

And  then  I  too,  like  a  bird  of  joassage  that  has 
alighted  for  a  moment  in  some  sheltered  garden- 
ground,  must  needs  go  on  my  way.  But  the  old 
house  had  spoken  with  me,  had  left  its  mark  upon 
my  spirit.  And  I  know  that  in  weary  hours,  far 
hence,  I  shall  remember  how  it  stood,  peering  out 
of  its  tangled  groves,  gazing  at  the  sunrise  and  the 
sunset  over  the  green  flats,  waiting  for  what  may 
be,  and  dreaming  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 


Ill 


I  HAVE  had  a  taste,  during  the  last  few  days,  I 
know  not  why,  of  the  cup  of  what  Gray  called 
Leucocholy;  it  is  not  ^lelancholy,  only  the  pale 


16  Thread  of  Gold 

shadow  of  it.  That  dark  giant  is,  doubtless,  stalk- 
ing somewhere  in  the  background,  and  the  shadow 
cast  by  his  misshapen  head  passes  over  my  Uttle 
garden  ground. 

I  do  not  readily  submit  to  this  mood,  and  I  would 
wish  it  away.  I  would  rather  feel  joyful  and  free 
from  blame;  but  Gray  called  it  a  good  easy  state, 
and  it  certainly  has  its  compensations.  It  does 
not,  like  Melancholy,  lay  a  dark  hand  on  duties  and 
pleasures  alike;  it  is  possible  to  work,  to  read,  to 
talk,  to  laugh  when  it  is  by.  But  it  sends  flowing 
through  the  mind  a  gentle  current  of  sad  and  weary 
images  and  thoughts,  which  still  have  a  beauty  of 
their  own;  it  tinges  one's  life  with  a  sober  greyness 
of  hue;  it  heightens  perception,  though  it  prevents 
enjoyment.  In  such  a  mood  one  can  sit  silent  a 
long  time,  with  one's  eyes  cast  upon  the  grass;  one 
sees  the  delicate  forms  of  the  tender  things  that 
spring  softly  out  of  the  dark  ground;  one  hears 
with  a  piognant  delight  the  clear  notes  of  birds; 
something  of  the  spring  languors  move  within  the 
soul.  There  is  a  sense,  too,  of  reaching  out  to  light 
and  joy,  a  stirring  of  the  vague  desires  of  the  heart, 
a  tender  hope,  an  upward-climbing  faith;  the  heart 
sighs  for  a  peace  that  it  cannot  attain. 

To-day  I  walked  slowly  and  pensively  by  little 
woods  and  pastures,  taking  delight  in  all  the  quiet 
life  I  saw,  the  bush  pricked  with  points  of  green. 


Leucocholy  17 

the  boughs  tliickened  with  small  reddening  buds, 
the  slow  stream  moving  through  the  pasture;  all 
the  tints  faint,  airy,  and  delicate;  the  life  of  the 
world  seemed  to  hang  suspended,  waiting  for  the 
forward  leap.  In  a  little  village  I  stood  awhile 
to  watch  the  gables  of  an  ancient  house,  the  wing  of 
a  ruined  grange,  peer  solemnly  over  the  mellow 
brick  wall  that  guarded  a  close  of  orchard  trees. 
A  little  way  behind,  the  blunt  pinnacles  of  the  old 
church-tower  stood  up,  blue  and  dim,  over  the 
branching  elms;  beyond  all  ran  the  long,  pure  line 
of  the  rising  wold.  Everything  seemed  so  still,  so 
serene,  as  a  long,  pale  ray  of  the  falling  sun,  which 
laboured  among  flying  clouds,  touched  the  west- 
ward gables  with  gold — and  mine  the  only 
troubled,  unquiet  spirit.  Hard  by  there  was  an  old 
man  tottering  about  in  a  little  garden,  fumbling 
with  some  plants,  like  Laertes  on  the  upland  farm. 
His  worn  face,  his  ragged  beard,  his  pitifully- 
patched  and  creased  garments  made  him  a  very  type 
of  an  ineffectual  sadness.  Perhaps  his  thoughts 
ran  as  sadly  as  my  own,  but  I  do  not  think  it  was 
so,  because  the  minds  of  many  country-people, 
and  of  almost  all  the  old,  of  whatever  degree, 
seem  to  me  free  from  what  is  the  curse  of  delicately- 
trained  and  highly-strung  temperaments — namely, 
the  temptation  to  be  always  reverting  to  the  past, 
or  forecasting  the  future.    Simple  people  and  aged 


18  The  Thread  of  Gold 

people  put  that  aside,  and  live  quite  serenely  in  the 
moment ;  and  that  is  what  I  believe  we  ought  all  to 
attempt,  for  most  moments  are  bearable,  if  one 
only  does  not  import  into  them  the  weight  of  the 
future  and  the  regret  of  the  past.  To  seize  the 
moment  with  all  its  conditions,  to  press  the  quality 
out  if  it,  that  is  the  best  victory.  But,  alas !  we  are 
so  made  that  though  we  may  know  that  a  course  is 
the  wise,  the  happy,  the  true  course,  we  cannot  al- 
ways pursue  it.  I  remember  a  story  of  a  public 
man  who  bore  his  responsibilities  very  hardly,  wor- 
ried and  agonised  over  him,  saying  to  ]Mr.  Glad- 
stone, who  was  at  that  time  in  the  very  thick  of  a 
fierce  political  crisis :  "  But  don't  you  find  j^ou  lie 
awake  at  night,  thinking  how  you  ought  to  act,  and 
how  you  ought  to  have  acted?"  Mr.  Gladstone 
turned  liis  great,  flashing  eyes  upon  his  interlocu- 
tor, and  said,  with  a  look  of  wonder:  "  No,  I  don't; 
where  would  be  the  use  of  that?"  And  again  I 
remember  that  old  Canon  Beadon — who  lived,  I 
think,  to  his  104th  year — said  to  a  friend  that  the 
secret  of  long  life  in  his  own  case  was  that  he  had 
never  thought  of  anything  unpleasant  after  ten 
o'clock  at  night.  Of  course,  if  you  have  a  series  of 
compartments  in  your  brain,  and  at  ten  o'clock  can 
turn  the  key  quietly  upon  the  room  that  holds  the 
skeletons  and  nightmares,  you  are  a  very  fortunate 
man. 


Leltcocholy        ■  19 

But  still,  we  can  all  of  us  do  something.  If  one 
has  the  courage  and  good  sense,  when  in  a  melan- 
choly mood,  to  engage  in  some  piece  of  practical 
work,  it  is  wonderful  how  one  can  distract  the  great 
beast  that,  left  to  himself,  crops  and  munches  the 
tender  herbage  of  the  spirit.  For  myself  I  have 
generally  a  certain  number  of  dull  tasks  to  per- 
form, not  in  themselves  interesting,  and  out  of 
which  little  pleasure  can  be  extracted,  except  the 
pleasure  which  always  results  from  finishing  a  piece 
of  necessary  work.  When  I  am  wise,  I  seize  upon 
a  day  in  which  I  am  overhung  with  a  shadow  of 
sadness  to  clear  off  work  of  this  kind.  It  is  in  it- 
self a  distraction,  and  then  one  has  the  pleasure 
both  of  having  fought  the  mood  and  also  of  having 
left  the  field  clear  for  the  mind,  when  it  has  recov- 
ered its  tone,  to  settle  down  firmly  and  joyfully  to 
more  congenial  labours. 

To-day,  little  by  little,  the  cloudy  mood  drew 
off  and  left  me  smiling.  The  love  of  the  peaceful 
and  patient  earth  came  to  comfort  me.  How  pure 
and  free  were  the  long  lines  of  ploughland,  the 
broad  back  of  the  gently-swelling  down!  How 
clear  and  delicate  were  the  February  tints,  the  aged 
grass,  the  leafless  trees !  What  a  sense  of  coolness 
and  repose!  I  stopped  a  long  time  upon  a  rustic- 
timbered  bridge  to  look  at  a  little  stream  that  ran 
beneath  the  road,  winding  down  through  a  rough 


20  The  Thread  of  Gold 

pasture-field,  with  many  thorn-thiclvets.  The  wa- 
ter, lapsing  slowly  through  withered  flags,  had  the 
pure,  gem-like  quality  of  the  winter  stream ;  in  sum- 
mer it  will  become  dim  and  turbid  with  infusorial 
life,  but  now  it  is  like  a  pale  jewel.  How  strange, 
I  thought,  to  think  of  this  liquid  gaseous  juice, 
which  we  call  water,  trickling  in  the  cracks  of  the 
earth!  And  just  as  the  fish  that  live  in  it  think  of 
it  as  their  world,  and  have  little  cognisance  of 
what  happens  in  the  acid,  unsubstantial  air  above, 
except  the  occasional  terror  of  the  dim,  looming 
forms  which  come  past,  making  the  soft  banks 
quiver  and  stir,  so  it  may  be  with  us ;  there  may  be 
a  great  mysterious  world  outside  of  us,  of  which 
we  sometimes  see  the  dark  manifestations,  and  yet 
of  the  conditions  of  which  we  are  wholly 
unaware. 

And  now  it  grew  dark;  the  horizon  began  to 
redden  and  smoulder;  the  stream  gleamed  like  a 
wan  thread  among  the  distant  fields.  It  was  time 
to  hurry  home,  to  dip  in  the  busy  tide  of  life  again. 
Where  was  my  sad  mood  gone?  The  clear  air 
seemed  to  have  blown  through  my  mind,  hands  had 
been  waved  to  me  from  leafless  woods,  quiet  voices 
of  field  and  stream  had  whispered  me  their  secrets ; 
"  We  would  tell,  if  we  could,"  they  seemed  to  say. 
And  I,  listening,  had  learned  patience,  too — for 
awhile. 


The  Flower  21 

IV 

I  HAVE  made  friends  with  a  new  flower.  If  it 
had  a  simple  and  wholesome  English  name,  I  would 
like  to  know  it,  though  I  do  not  care  to  know  what 
ugly  and  clumsy  title  the  botanj^  books  may  give 
it;  but  it  lives  in  my  mind,  a  perfect  and  complete 
memory  of  brightness  and  beauty,  and,  as  I  have 
said,  a  friend. 

It  was  in  a  steep  sea-cove  that  I  saw  it.  Round 
a  small  circular  basin  of  blue  sea  ran  up  gigantic 
cliffs,  grey  limestone  bluffs;  here  and  there,  where 
they  were  precipitous,  slanted  the  monstrous  wavy 
lines  of  distorted  strata,  thrust  up,  God  alone  knows 
how  many  ages  ago,  by  some  sharp  and  horrible 
shiver  of  the  boiling  earth.  Little  waves  broke  on 
the  pebbly  beach  at  our  feet,  and  all  the  air  was  full 
of  pleasant  sharp  briny  savours.  A  few  boats  were 
drawn  up  on  the  shingle ;  lobster-pots,  nets,  strings 
of  cork,  spars,  oars,  lay  in  pleasant  confusion,  by 
the  sandy  road  that  led  up  to  the  tiny  hamlet  above. 
We  had  travelled  far  that  day  and  were  comfort- 
ably weary;  we  found  a  sloping  ledge  of  turf  upon 
which  we  sat,  and  presently  became  aware  that  on 
the  little  space  of  grass  between  us  and  the  cliff 
must  once  have  stood  a  cottage  and  a  cottage  gar- 
den. There  was  a  broken  wall  behind  us,  and  the 
little    platform    still    held    some    garden    flowers 


22  The  Thread  of  Gold 

sprawling  wildly,  a  stunted  fruit-bush  or  two,  a 
knotted  apple-tree. 

]My  ow^n  flower,  or  the  bushes  on  which  it  grew, 
had  once,  I  think,  formed  part  of  the  cottage  ledge ; 
but  it  had  found  a  wider  place  to  its  liking,  for  it 
ran  riot  everywhere;  it  scaled  the  cliff,  where,  too, 
the  golden  wall-flowers  of  the  garden  had  gained 
a  footing;  it  fringed  the  sandpatches  beyond  us, 
it  rooted  itself  firmly  in  the  shingle.  The  plant  had 
rough  light-brown  branches,  which  were  now  all 
starred  with  the  greenest  tufts  imaginable;  but  the 
flower  itself!  On  many  of  the  bushes  it  was  not 
yet  fully  out,  and  showed  only  in  an  abundance  of 
small  lilac  balls,  carefully  folded;  but  just  below 
me  a  cluster  had  found  the  sun  and  the  air  too 
sweet  to  resist,  and  had  opened  to  the  light.  The 
flower  was  of  a  delicate  veined  purj)le,  a  five- 
pointed  star,  with  a  soft  golden  heart.  All  the 
open  blossoms  stared  at  me  with  a  tranquil  gaze, 
knowing  I  would  not  hurt  them. 

Below,  two  fishermen  rowed  a  boat  quietly  out 
to  sea,  the  sharp  creaking  of  the  rowlocks  coming 
lazily  to  our  ears  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind.  The 
little  waves  fell  with  a  soft  thud,  followed  by  the 
crisp  echo  of  the  surf,  feeling  all  round  the  shingly 
cove.  The  whole  place,  in  that  fresh  spring  day, 
was  unutterably  peaceful  and  content. 

And  I  too  forgot  all  my  busy  schemes  and  hopes 


The  Floayee  23 

and  aims,  the  tinj^  part  I  play  in  the  world,  Avith  so 
much  petty  energy,  such  anxious  responsibility. 
INIy  purple-starred  flower  approved  of  my  acqui- 
escence, smiling  trustfully  ujion  me.  "  Here,"  it 
seemed  to  say,  "  I  bloom  and  brighten,  spring  after 
spring.  No  one  regards  me,  no  one  cares  for  me; 
no  one  praises  my  beauty;  no  one  sorrows  when 
these  leaves  grow  pale,  when  I  fall  from  my  stem, 
when  my  dry  stalks  whisper  together  in  the  winter 
wind.  But  to  you,  because  j^ou  have  seen  and  loved 
me,  I  whisper  my  secret."  And  then  the  flower 
told  me  something  that  I  cannot  write  even  if  I 
would,  because  it  is  in  the  language  unspeakable, 
of  which  St.  Paul  wrote  that  such  words  are  not 
lawful  for  a  man  to  utter ;  but  they  are  heard  in  the 
third  heaven  of  God. 

Then  I  felt  that  if  I  could  but  remember  what 
the  flower  said  I  should  never  grieve  or  strive  or 
be  sorrowful  any  more;  but,  as  the  wise  Psalmist 
said,  be  content  to  tarry  the  Lord's  leisure.  Yet, 
even  when  I  thought  that  I  had  the  words  by 
heart,  they  ceased  like  a  sweet  music  that  comes  to 
an  end,  and  which  the  mind  cannot  recover. 

I  saw  many  other  things  that  day,  things  beauti- 
ful and  wonderful,  no  doubt ;  but  they  had  no  voice 
for  me,  like  the  purple  flower;  or  if  they  had,  the 
sea  wind  drowned  them  in  the  utterance,  for 
their  voices   were   of  the   earth;   but   the   flower's 


24  The  Thread  of  Gold 

voice  came,  as  I  have  said,   from  the  innermost 
heaven. 

I  hke  well  to  go  on  pilgrimage;  and  in  spite  of 
weariness  and  rainy  weather,  and  the  stupid  chat- 
ter of  the  men  and  women  who  congregate  like 
fowls  in  inn-parlom's,  I  pile  a  little  treasure  of 
sights  and  sounds  in  my  guarded  heart,  memories 
of  old  buildings,  spring  woods,  secluded  valleys. 
All  these  are  things  seen,  impressions  registered 
and  gratefully  recorded.  But  my  flower  is  some- 
how different  from  all  these ;  and  I  shall  never  again 
hear  the  name  of  the  place  mentioned,  or  even  see  a 
map  of  that  grey  coast,  without  a  quiet  thrill  of 
gladness  at  the  thought  that  there,  spring  by 
spring,  blooms  my  little  friend,  whose  heart  I  read, 
who  told  me  its  secret;  who  will  wait  for  me  to  re- 
turn, and  indeed  will  be  faithfully  and  eternally 
mine,  whether  I  return  or  no. 


I  HAVE  lately  become  convinced — and  I  do  not 
say  it  either  sophistically,  to  plead  a  bad  cause  with 
dexterity,  or  resignedly,  to  make  the  best  out  of  a 
poor  business;  but  with  a  true  and  hearty  convic- 
tion— that  the  most  beautiful  country  in  England 
is  the  flat  fenland.     I  do  not  here  mean  moderately 


The  Fens  25 

flat  country,  low  sweeps  of  land,  like  the  heaving 
of  a  dying  groundswell;  that  has  a  miniature 
beauty,  a  stippled  delicacy  of  its  own,  but  it  is  not 
a  fine  quality  of  charm.  The  country  that  I  would 
praise  is  the  rigidly  and  mathematically  flat  coun- 
try of  Eastern  England,  lying  but  a  few  feet  above 
the  sea  plains  which  were  once  the  bottoms  of  huge 
and  ancient  swamps. 

In  the  first  place,  such  country  gives  a  wonder- 
ful sense  of  expanse  and  space;  from  an  eminence 
of  a  few  feet  you  can  see  what  in  other  parts  of 
England  you  have  to  climb  a  considerable  hill  to 
discern.  I  love  to  feast  my  eyes  on  the  intermin- 
able rich  level  plain,  with  its  black  and  crumbling 
soil;  the  long  simple  lines  of  dykes  and  water- 
courses carry  the  eye  peacefully  out  to  a  great 
distance ;  then,  too,  by  having  all  the  landscape  com- 
pressed into  so  narrow  a  space,  into  a  belt  of  what 
is,  to  the  eye,  only  a  few  inches  in  depth,  you  get 
an  incomparable  richness  of  colour.  The  solitary 
distant  clumps  of  trees  surrounding  a  lonely  farm 
gain  a  deep  intensity  of  tint  from  the  vast  green 
level  all  about  them;  and  the  line  of  the  low  far-off 
wolds,  that  close  the  view  many  miles  away,  is  of 
a  peculiar  delicacy  and  softness;  the  eye,  too,  is 
provided  with  a  foreground  of  which  the  elements 
are  of  the  simplest;  a  reedy  pool  enclosed  by  wil- 
lows, the  clustered  buildings  of  a  farmstead ;  a  grey 


26  The  Thread  of  Gold 

church-tower  peering  out  over  churchyard  elms; 
and  thus,  instead  of  being  checked  by  near  objects, 
and  heninied  in  by  the  hmited  landscape,  the  eye 
travels  out  across  the  plain  with  a  sense  of  freedom 
and  grateful  repose.  Then,  too,  there  is  the  huge 
perspective  of  the  sky;  nowhere  else  is  it  possible 
to  see,  so  widely,  the  slow  march  of  clouds  from 
horizon  to  horizon;  it  all  gives  a  sense  of  largeness 
and  tranquillity  such  as  you  receive  upon  the  sea, 
with  the  additional  advantage  of  having  the  solid 
earth  beneath  you,  green  and  fertile,  instead  of  the 
steety  waste  of  w^aters. 

A  day  or  two  ago  I  found  myself  beside  the 
lower  waters  of  the  Cam,  in  flat  pastures,  full  of 
ancient  thorn-trees  just  bursting  into  bloom.  I 
gained  the  towing-path,  which  led  me  out  gradually 
into  the  heart  of  the  fen;  the  river  ran,  or  rather 
moved,  a  sapphire  streak,  between  its  high  green 
flood-banks ;  the  wide  spaces  between  the  embanked 
jDath  and  the  stream  were  full  of  juicy  herbage, 
great  tracts  of  white  cow-parsley,  with  here  and 
there  a  reed-bed.  I  stood  long  to  listen  to  the 
sharp  song  of  the  reed-warbler,  slipping  from 
spray  to  sjiray  of  a  willow-patch.  Far  to  the  north 
the  great  tower  of  Ely  rose  blue  and  dim  above 
the  low  lines  of  trees;  in  the  centre  of  the  pastures 
lay  the  long  brown  line  of  the  sedge-beds  of  Wicken 
JNIere,  almost  the  only  untouched  tract  of  fenland; 


The  Fens  27 

slow  herds  of  cattle  grazed,  more  and  more  minute, 
in  the  unhedged  pasture-land,  and  the  solitary  fig- 
ure of  a  labourer  moving  homeward  on  the  top  of 
the  green  dyke,  seemed  in  the  long  afternoon  to 
draw  no  nearer.  Here  and  there  were  the  flood- 
gates of  a  lode,  with  the  clear  water  slowly  spilling 
itself  over  the  rim  of  the  sluice,  full  of  floating 
weed.  There  was  something  infinitely  reposeful  in 
the  solitude,  the  width  of  the  landscape;  there  was 
no  sense  of  crowded  life,  no  busy  figures,  intent  on 
their  small  aims,  to  cross  one's  path,  no  conflict,  no 
strife,  no  bitterness,  no  insistent  voice;  yet  there 
was  no  sense  of  desolation,  but  rather  the  spectacle 
of  glad  and  simple  lives  of  plants  and  birds  in  the 
free  air,  their  wildness  tamed  by  the  far-off  and 
controlling  hand  of  man,  the  calm  earth  patiently 
serving  his  ends.  I  seemed  to  have  passed  out  of 
modern  life  into  a  quieter  and  older  world,  before 
men  congregated  into  cities,  but  lived  the  quiet  and 
sequestered  life  of  the  country-side;  and  little  by 
little  there  stole  into  my  heart  something  of  a 
dreamful  tranquility,  the  calm  of  the  slow  brimming 
stream,  the  leisurely  herds,  the  growing  grass.  All 
seemed  to  be  moving  together,  neither  lingering 
nor  making  haste,  to  some  far-off  end  within  the 
quiet  mind  of  God.  Everything  seemed  to  be 
waiting,  musing,  living  the  untroubled  life  of  nat- 
ure, with  no  thought  of  death  or  care  or  sorrow.     I 


28  The  Thread  of  Gold 

passed  a  trench  of  still  water  that  ran  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  follow  it  across  the  flat;  it  was  full  from 
end  to  end  of  the  beautiful  water-violet,  the  pale 
lilac  flowers,  with  their  faint  ethereal  scent,  clus- 
tered on  the  head  of  a  cool  emerald  spike,  with  the 
rich  foliage  of  the  plant,  like  fine  green  hair,  filling 
the  water.  The  rising  of  these  beautiful  forms,  by 
some  secret  consent,  in  their  appointed  place  and 
time,  out  of  the  fresh  clear  water,  brought  me  a 
wistful  sense  of  peace  and  order,  a  desire  for  I 
hardly  know  what — a  poised  stateliness  of  life,  a 
tender  beauty — if  I  could  but  win  it  for  myself! 

On  and  on,  hour  by  hour,  that  still  bright  after- 
noon, I  made  my  slow  way  over  the  fen ;  insensibly 
and  softly  the  far-off  villages  fell  behind;  and  yet 
I  seemed  to  draw  no  nearer  to  the  hills  of  the  hori- 
zon. Now  and  then  I  passed  a  lonely  grange; 
once  or  twice  I  came  near  to  a  tall  shuttered  en- 
gine-house of  pale  brick,  and  heard  the  slow  beat 
of  the  pumps  within,  like  the  pulse  of  a  hidden 
heart,  which  drew  the  marsh-water  from  a  hundred 
runlets,  and  poured  it  slowly  seawards.  Field  after 
field  slid  past  me,  some  golden  from  end  to  end 
with  buttercups,  some  waving  wdth  young  wheat, 
till  at  last  I  reached  a  solitary  inn  beside  a  ferry, 
with  the  quaint  title:  ''No  hurry  !  five  miles  from 
any  veil  ere."  And  here  I  met  with  a  grave  and 
kindly  welcome,  such  as  warms  the  heart  of  one 


The  Well  and  the  Chapel  29 

who  goes  on  pilgrimage :  as  though  I  was  certainly- 
expected,  and  as  if  the  lord  of  the  place  had  given 
charge  concerning  me.  It  would  indeed  hardly 
have  surprised  me  if  I  had  been  had  into  a  room, 
and  shown  strange  symbols  of  good  and  evil;  or  if 
I  had  been  given  a  roll  and  a  bottle,  and  a  note  of 
the  way.  But  no  such  presents  were  made  to  me, 
and  it  was  not  until  after  I  had  left  the  little  house, 
and  had  been  ferried  in  an  old  blackened  boat  across 
the  stream,  that  I  found  that  I  had  the  gifts  in  my 
bosom  all  the  while. 

The  roll  was  the  fair  sight  that  I  had  seen,  in  this 
world  where  it  is  so  sweet  to  live.  ]My  cordial  was 
the  peace  witliin  my  spirit.  And  as  for  the  waj^  it 
seemed  plain  enough  that  day,  easy  to  discern  and 
follow;  and  the  heavenly  city  itself  as  near  and 
visible  as  the  blue  towers  that  rose  so  solemnly 
upon  the  green  horizon. 


VI 


It  is  not  often  that  one  is  fortunate  enough  to 
see  two  perfectly  beautiful  things  in  one  day.  But 
such  was  my  fortune  in  the  late  summer,  on  a  day 
that  was  in  itself  perfect  enough  to  show  what 
September  can  do,  if  he  only  has  a  mind  to  plan 
hours  of  delight  for  man.     The  distance  was  very 


30  The  Thread  of  Gold 

blue  and  marvellously  clear.  The  trees  had  the 
bronzed  look  of  the  summer's  end,  with  deep  azure 
shadows.  The  cattle  moved  slowly  about  the  fields, 
and  there  was  harvesting  going  on,  so  that  the  vil- 
lages we  passed  seemed  almost  deserted.  I  will 
not  say  whence  we  started  or  where  we  went,  and  I 
shall  mention  no  names  at  all,  except  one,  which 
is  of  the  nature  of  a  symbol  or  incantation ;  for  I  do 
not  desire  that  others  should  go  where  I  went,  un- 
less I  could  be  sure  that  they  went  with  the  same 
peace  in  their  hearts  that  I  bore  with  me  that  day. 

One  of  the  places  we  visited  on  purpose;  the 
other  we  saw  by  accident.  On  the  small  map  we 
carried  was  marked,  at  the  corner  of  a  little  wood 
that  seemed  to  have  no  wav  to  it,  a  well  with  the 
name  of  a  saint,  of  whom  I  never  heard,  though 
I  doubt  not  she  is  written  in  the  book  of  God. 

We  reached  the  nearest  point  to  the  well  upon 
the  road,  and  we  struck  into  the  fields;  that  was  a 
sweet  place  where  we  found  ourselves !  In  ancient 
days  it  had  been  a  marsh,  I  think.  For  great 
ditches  ran  everywhere,  choked  with  loose-strife 
and  water-dock,  and  the  ground  quaked  as  we 
walked,  a  pleasant  springy  black  mould,  the  dust 
of  endless  centuries  of  the  rich  water  plants. 

To  the  left,  the  ground  ran  up  sharply  in  a  min- 
ute bluff,  with  the  soft  outline  of  underlying  chalk, 
covered  with  small  thorn-thickets;  and  it  was  all 


The  Well  31 

encircled  with  small,  close  woods,  where  w^e  heard 
the  pheasants  scamper.  We  found  an  old,  slow, 
bovine  man,  with  a  cheerful  face,  who  readily  threw 
aside  some  fumbling  work  he  was  doing,  and 
guided  us ;  and  we  should  never  have  found  the  spot 
without  him.  He  led  us  to  a  stream,  crossed  by  a 
single  plank  with  a  handrail,  on  which  some  child- 
ren had  put  a  trap,  baited  with  nuts  for  the  poor 
squirrels,  that  love  to  run  chattering  across  the  rail 
from  wood  to  wood.  Then  we  entered  a  little 
covert;  it  was  very  pleasant  in  there,  all  dark  and 
green  and  still ;  and  here  all  at  once  we  came  to  the 
place;  in  the  covert  were  half  a  dozen  little  steep 
pits,  each  a  few  yards  across,  dug  out  of  the  chalk. 
From  each  of  the  pits,  which  lay  side  by  side,  a 
channel  ran  down  to  the  stream,  and  in  each  chan- 
nel flowed  a  small  bickering  rivulet  of  infinite  clear- 
ness. The  pits  themselves  were  a  few  feet  deep ;  at 
the  bottom  of  each  was  a  shallow  pool,  choked  with 
leaves;  and  here  lay  the  rare  beauty  of  the  place. 
The  water  rose  in  each  pit  out  of  secret  ways,  but 
in  no  place  that  we  could  see.  The  first  pit  was 
still  when  we  looked  upon  it ;  then  suddenly  the  wa- 
ter rose  in  a  tiny  eddy,  in  one  corner,  among  the 
leaves,  sending  a  little  ripple  glancing  across  the 
pool.  It  was  as  though  something,  branch  or  in- 
sect, had  fallen  from  above,  the  water  leapt  so 
suddenly.     Then  it  rose  again  in  another  x)lace, 


32  The  Thread  of  Gold 

then  in  another;  then  five  or  six  httle  freshets  rose 
all  at  once,  the  rings  crossing  and  recrossing.  And 
it  was  the  same  in  all  the  pits,  which  we  visited  one 
by  one;  we  descended  and  drank,  and  found  the 
water  as  cold  as  ice,  and  not  less  pure;  while  the 
old  man  babbled  on  about  the  waste  of  so  much 
fine  water,  and  of  its  virtues  for  weak  eyes:  "Ain't 
it  cold,  now?  Ain't  it,  then?  My  God,  ain't  it? " 
— he  was  a  man  with  a  rich  store  of  simple  assever- 
ations,— "And  ain't  it  good  for  weak  eyes  neither! 
You  must  just  come  to  the  place  the  first  thing  in 
the  morning,  and  wash  your  eyes  in  the  water,  and 
ain't  it  strengthening  then!"  So  he  chirped  on, 
saying  everything  over  and  over,  like  a  bird  among 
the  thickets. 

We  paid  him  for  his  trouble,  with  a  coin  that 
made  him  so  gratefully  bewildered  that  he  said  to 
us:  "  Now,  gentlemen,  if  there's  anything  else  that 
you  want,  give  it  a  name ;  and  if  you  meet  any  one 
as  you  go  away,  say  '  Perrett  told  me  '  ( Perrett  's 
my  name),  and  then  you'll  see!"  What  the  pre- 
cise virtue  of  this  invocation  was,  we  did  not  have 
an  opportunity  of  testing,  but  that  it  was  a  talis- 
man to  unlock  hidden  doors,  I  make  no  doubt. 

We  went  back  silently  over  the  fields,  with  the 
wonder  of  the  thing  still  in  our  minds.  To  think 
of  the  pure  wells  bubbling  and  flashing,  by  day  and 
by  night,  in  the  hot  summer  weather,  when  the 


The  Chapel  33 

smell  of  the  wood  lies  warm  in  the  sun;  on  cold 
Mdnter  nights  under  moon  and  stars,  forever  cast- 
ing up  the  bright  elastic  jewel,  that  men  call  water, 
and  feeding  the  flowing  stream  that  wanders  to  the 
sea.  I  was  very  full  of  gratitude  to  the  pure 
maiden  saint  that  lent  her  name  to  the  well,  and  I 
am  sure  she  never  had  a  more  devout  pair  of 
worshippers. 

So  we  sped  on  in  silence,  thinking — at  least  I 
thought — how  the  water  leaped  and  winked  in  the 
sacred  wells,  and  how  clear  showed  the  chalk,  and 
the  leaves  that  lay  at  the  bottom:  till  at  last  we 
drew  to  our  other  goal.  "  Here  is  the  gate,"  said 
my  companion  at  last. 

On  one  side  of  the  road  stood  a  big  substantial 
farm;  on  the  other,  by  a  gate,  was  a  little  lodge. 
Here  a  key  was  given  us  by  an  old  hearty  man, 
with  plenty  of  advice  of  a  simple  and  sententious 
kind,  until  I  felt  as  though  I  were  enacting  a  part 
in  some  little  Pilgrim's  Progress,  and  as  if  Mr. 
Interpreter  himself,  with  a  very  grave  smile,  would 
come  out  and  have  me  into  a  room  by  myself,  to 
see  some  odd  pleasant  show  that  he  had  provided. 
But  it  was  perhaps  more  in  the  manner  of  Evange- 
list, for  our  guide  pointed  with  his  finger  across  a 
very  wide  field,  and  showed  us  a  wicket  to  enter 
in  at. 

Here  was  a  great  flat  grassy  pasture,  the  water 

3 


34  The  Thread  of  Gold 

again  very  near  the  surface,  as  the  long-leaved  wa- 
ter-plants, that  sprawled  in  all  the  ditches,  showed. 
But  when  we  reached  the  wicket  we  seemed  to  be 
as  far  removed  from  humanity  as  dwellers  in  a 
lonely  isle.  A  few  cattle  grazed  drowsily,  and  the 
crisp  tearing  of  the  grass  by  their  big  lips  came 
softly  across  the  pasture.  Inside  the  wicket  stood 
a  single  ancient  house,  uninhabited,  and  festooned 
with  ivy  into  a  thing  more  bush  than  house ;  though 
a  small  Tudor  window  peeped  from  the  leaves,  like 
the  little  suspicious  eye  of  some  shaggy  beast. 

A  stone's  throw  away  lay  a  large  square  moat, 
full  of  water,  all  fringed  with  ancient  gnarled 
trees;  the  island  which  it  enclosed  was  overgrown 
with  tiny  thickets  of  dishevelled  box-trees,  and 
huge  sprawling  laurels;  we  walked  softly  round  it, 
and  there  was  our  goal :  a  small  church  of  a  whitish 
stone,  in  the  middle  of  a  little  close  of  old  sycamores 
in  stiff  summer  leaf. 

It  stood  so  remote,  so  quietty  holy,  so  ancient, 
that  I  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  "  old  febel 
chapel "  of  the  Morte  d'  Arthur,  It  had,  I  know 
not  why,  the  mysterious  air  of  romance  all  about  it. 
It  seemed  to  sit,  musing  upon  what  had  been  and 
what  should  be,  smilingly  guarding  some  tender 
secret  for  the  pure-hearted,  full  of  the  peace  the 
world  cannot  give. 

Within  it  was  cool  and  dark,  and  had  an  ancient 


The  Chapel  35 

holy  smell;  It  was  furnished  sparely  "VAdth  seat  and 
screen,  and  held  monuments  of  old  knights  and 
ladies,  sleeping  peacefully  side  by  side,  heads  pil- 
lowed on  hands,  looking  out  with  quiet  eyes,  as 
though  content  to  wait. 

Upon  the  island  in  the  moat,  we  learned,  had 
stood  once  a  flourishing  manor,  but  through  what 
sad  vicissitudes  it  had  fallen  into  dust  I  care  not. 
Enough  that  peaceful  lives  had  been  lived  there; 
children  had  been  born,  had  played  on  the  moat- 
edge,  had  passed  away  to  bear  children  of  their  own, 
had  returned  A\ith  love  in  their  hearts  for  the  old 
house.  From  the  house  to  the  church  children 
had  been  borne  for  baptism;  merry  wedding  pro- 
cessions had  gone  to  and  fro,  happy  Christmas 
groups  had  hurried  backwards  and  forwards;  and 
the  slow  funeral  pomp  had  passed  thither,  under 
the  beating  of  the  slow  bell,  bearing  one  that  should 
not  return. 

Something  of  the  love  and  life  and  sorrow  of 
the  good  days  passed  into  my  mind,  and  I  gave  a 
tender  thought  to  men  and  women  whom  I  had 
never  known,  who  had  tasted  of  life,  and  of  joyful 
things  that  have  an  end;  and  who  now  know  the 
secret  of  the  dark  house  to  which  we  all  are  bound. 

When  we  at  last  rose  unwillingly  to  go,  the  sun 
was  setting,  and  flamed  red  and  brave  through  the 
gnarled  trunks  of  the  little  wood;  the  mist  crept 


36  The  Thread  of  Gold 

over  the  pasture,  and  far  away  the  lights  of  the 
lonely  farm  began  to  wink  through  the  gathering 
dark. 

But  I  had  seen!  Something  of  the  joy  of  the 
two  sweet  places  had  settled  in  my  mind ;  and  now, 
in  fretful,  weary,  wakeful  hours,  it  is  good  to  think 
of  the  clear  wells  that  sparkle  so  patiently  in  the 
dark  wood;  and,  better  still,  to  wander  in  mind 
about  the  moat  and  the  little  silent  church;  and  to 
wonder  what  it  all  means;  what  the  love  is  that 
creeps  over  the  soul  at  the  sight  of  these  places,  so 
full  of  a  remote  and  delicate  beauty;  and  whether 
the  hunger  of  the  heart  for  peace  and  permanence, 
which  visits  us  so  often  in  our  short  and  difficult 
pilgrimage,  has  a  counterpart  in  the  land  that  is 
very  far  off. 

VII 

I  HAVE  been  much  haunted,  indeed  infested,  if 
the  word  may  be  pardoned,  by  cuckoos  lately; 
When  I  was  a  child,  acute  though  my  observation 
of  birds  and  beasts  and  natural  things  was,  I  do 
not  recollect  that  I  ever  saw  a  cuckoo,  though  I 
often  tried  to  stalk  one  by  the  ear,  following  the 
sweet  siren  melody,  as  it  dropped  into  the  expectant 
silence  from  a  hedgerow  tree;  and  I  remember  to 


The  Cuckoo  37 

have  heard  the  notes  of  two,  that  seemed  to  answer 
each  other,  draw  closer  each  time  they  called. 

But  of  late  I  have  become  familiar  with  the  sil- 
very grey  body  and  the  gliding  flight ;  and  this  year 
I  have  been  almost  dogged  by  them.  One  flew 
beside  me,  as  I  rode  the  other  day,  for  nearly  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  along  a  hedgerow,  taking  short 
gliding  flights,  and  settling  till  I  came  up;  I  could 
see  his  shimmering  wings  and  his  long  barred  tail. 
I  dismounted  at  last,  and  he  let  me  watch  him  for 
a  long  time,  noting  his  small  active  head,  his  decent 
sober  coat.  Then,  when  he  thought  I  had  seen 
enough,  he  gave  one  rich  bell-like  call,  with  the  full 
force  of  his  soft  throat,  and  floated  off. 

He  seemed  loath  to  leave  me.  But  what  word 
or  gift,  I  thought,  did  he  bring  with  him,  false  and 
pretty  bird?  Do  I  too  desire  that  others  should 
hatch  my  eggs,  content  with  flute-like  notes  of 
pleasure  ? 

And  yet  how  strange  and  marvellous  a  thing 
this  instinct  is;  that  one  bird,  by  an  absolute  and 
unvarying  instinct,  should  forego  the  dear  business 
of  nesting  and  feeding,  and  should  take  shrewd  ad- 
vantage of  the  labours  of  other  birds!  It  cannot 
be  a  deliberately  reasoned  or  calculated  thing;  at 
least  we  say  that  it  cannot ;  and  yet  not  Darwin  and 
all  his  followers  have  brought  us  any  nearer  to  the 
method  by  which  such  an  instinct  is  developed  and 


38  The  Thread  of  Gold 

trained,  till  it  has  become  an  absolute  law  of  the 
tribe;  making  it  as  natural  a  thing  for  the  cuckoo 
to  search  for  a  built  nest,  and  to  cast  away  its 
foundling  egg  there,  as  it  is  for  other  birds  to  wel- 
come and  feed  the  intruder.  It  seems  so  satani- 
cally  clever  a  thing  to  do;  such  a  strange  fantastic 
whim  of  the  Creator  to  take  thought  in  originating 
it!  It  is  this  whimsicality,  the  bizarre  humour  in 
Nature,  that  puzzles  me  more  than  anything  in  the 
world,  because  it  seems  like  the  sport  of  a  child  with 
odd  inconsequent  fancies,  and  with  omnipotence 
behind  it  all  the  time.  It  seems  strange  enough  to 
think  of  the  laws  that  govern  the  breeding,  nesting, 
and  nurture  of  birds  at  all,  especially  when  one  con- 
siders all  the  accidents  that  so  often  make  the  toil 
futile,  like  the  stealing  of  eggs  by  other  birds,  and 
the  predatory  incursions  of  foes.  One  would  ex- 
pect a  law,  framed  by  omnipotence,  to  be  invari- 
able, not  hampered  hy  all  kinds  of  difficulties  that 
omnipotence,  one  might  have  thought,  could  have 
provided  against.  And  then  comes  this  further 
strange  variation  in  the  law,  in  the  case  of  this  single 
family  of  birds,  and  the  mystery  thickens  and  deep- 
ens. And  stranger  than  all  is  the  existence  of  the 
questioning  and  unsatisfied  human  spirit,  that  ob- 
serves these  things  and  classifies  them,  and  that  yet 
gets  no  nearer  to  the  solution  of  the  huge,  fantastic, 
patient  plan !     To  make  a  law,  as  the  Creator  seems 


The  Cuckoo  '39 

to  have  done;  and  then  to  make  a  hundred  other 
laws  that  seem  to  make  the  first  law  inoperative ;  to 
play  this  gigantic  game  century  after  century;  and 
then  to  put  into  the  hearts  of  our  inquisitive  race 
the  desire  to  discover  what  it  is  all  about;  and  to 
leave  the  desire  unsatisfied.  What  a  labyrinthine 
mystery!  Depth  beyond  depth,  and  circle  beyond 
circle ! 

It  is  a  dark  and  bewildering  region  that  thus 
opens  to  the  view.  But  one  conclusion  is  to  be- 
ware of  seeming  certainties,  to  keep  the  windows  of 
the  mind  open  to  the  light;  not  to  be  over-anxious 
about  the  little  part  we  have  to  play  in  the  great 
pageant,  but  to  advance,  step  by  stej),  in  utter 
trustfulness. 

Perhaps  that  is  your  message  to  me,  graceful 
bird,  with  the  rich  joyful  note!  With  what  a 
thrill,  too,  do  you  bring  back  to  me  the  brightness 
of  old  forgotten  springs,  the  childish  rapture  at  the 
sweet  tunable  cry!  Then,  in  those  far-off  days,  it 
was  but  the  herald  of  the  glowing  summer  days, 
the  time  of  play  and  flowers  and  scents.  But  now 
the  soft  note,  it  seems,  opens  a  door  into  the  form- 
less and  uneasy  world  of  speculation,  of  questions 
that  have  no  answer,  convincing  me  of  ignorance 
and  doubt,  bidding  me  beat  in  vain  against  the  bars 
that  hem  me  in.  Why  should  I  crave  thus  for  cer- 
tainty,   for   strength?     Answer   me,    happy   bird! 


40  The  Thread  of  Gold 

Nay,  you  guard  your  secret.  Softer  and  more  dis- 
tant sound  the  sweet  notes,  warning  me  to  rest  and 
believe,  telling  me  to  wait  and  hope. 

But  one  further  thought!  One  is  expected,  by 
people  of  conventional  or  orthodox  minds,  to  base 
one's  conceptions  of  God  on  the  writings  of  frail 
and  fallible  men,  and  to  accept  their  slender  and 
eager  testimony  to  the  occurrence  of  abnormal 
events  as  the  best  revelation  of  God  that  the  world 
contains.  And  all  the  while  we  disregard  his  own 
patient  writing  upon  the  wall.  Every  day  and 
every  hour  we  are  confronted  with  strange  marvels, 
which  we  dismiss  from  our  minds  because,  God  for- 
give us,  we  call  them  natural ;  and  yet  they  take  us 
back,  by  a  ladder  of  immeasurable  antiquity,  to  ages 
before  man  had  emerged  from  a  savage  state.  Cen- 
turies before  our  rude  forefathers  had  learned  even 
to  scratch  a  few  hillocks  into  earthworks,  while  they 
lived  a  brutish  life,  herding  in  dens  and  caves,  the 
cuckoo,  with  her  traditions  faultlessly  defined,  was 
paying  her  annual  visits,  fluting  about  the  forest 
glades,  and  searching  for  nests  into  which  to  in- 
trude her  speckled  egg.  The  patient  witness  of 
God !  She  is  as  direct  a  revelation  of  the  Creator's 
mind,  could  w^e  but  interpret  the  mystery  of  her 
instincts,  as  Augustine  himself  Avith  his  scheme  of 
salvation  logically  defined.  Each  of  these  mis- 
sions, whether  of  bird  or  man,  a  wonder  and  a  mar- 


The  Cuckoo  41 

vel!  But  do  we  not  tend  to  accept  the  eager  and 
childish  hopes  of  humanity,  arrayed  with  bhthe  cer- 
tainty, as  a  nearer  evidence  of  the  mind  of  God 
than  the  bird  that  at  his  bidding  pursues  her  an- 
nual quest,  unaffected  by  our  hasty  conclusions, 
unmoved  by  our  glorified  visions?  I  have  some- 
times thought  that  Christ  probably  spoke  more 
than  is  recorded  about  the  observation  of  Nature; 
the  hearts  of  those  that  heard  him  were  so  set  on 
temporal  ends  and  human  applications,  that  they 
had  not  perhaps  leisure  or  capacity  to  recollect 
aught  but  those  few  scattered  words,  that  seem  to 
speak  of  a  deep  love  for  and  insight  into  the  things 
of  earth.  They  remembered  better  that  Christ 
blasted  a  fig-tree  for  not  doing  what  the  Father  bade 
the  poor  plant  do,  than  his  tender  dwelling  upon 
grasses  and  lilies,  sparrow  and  sheep.  The  with- 
ering of  the  tree  made  an  allegory :  while  the  love  of 
flowers  and  streams  was  to  those  simple  hearts  per- 
haps an  unaccountable,  almost  an  eccentric  thing. 
But  had  Christ  drawn  human  breath  in  our  bleaker 
Northern  air,  he  w^ould  have  perhaps,  if  those  that 
surrounded  him  had  had  leisure  and  grace  to  listen, 
drawn  as  grave  and  comforting  a  soul-music  from 
our  homely  cuckoo,  with  her  punctual  obedience, 
her  unquestioning  faith,  as  he  did  from  the  birds 
and  flowers  of  the  hot  hillsides,  the  pastoral  valleys 
of  Palestine.     I  am  sure  he  would  have  loved  the 


42  The  Thread  of  Gold 

cuckoo,  and  forgiven  her  her  heartless  customs. 
Those  that  sing  so  delicately  would  not  have  leisure 
and  courage  to  make  their  music  so  soft  and  sweet, 
if  they  had  not  a  hard  heart  to  turn  to  the  sorrows 
of  the  world. 

Yet  still  I  am  no  nearer  the  secret.  God  sends 
me,  here  the  frozen  peak,  there  the  blue  sea;  here 
the  tiger,  there  the  cuckoo;  here  Virgil,  there 
Jeremiah;  here  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  there  Napo- 
leon. And  all  the  while,  as  he  pushes  his  fair  or 
hurtful  toys  upon  the  stage,  not  a  whisper,  not  a 
smile,  not  a  glance  escapes  him ;  he  thrusts  them  on, 
he  lays  them  by;  but  the  interpretation  he  leaves 
with  us,  and  there  is  never  a  word  out  of  the  silence 
to  show  us  whether  we  have  guessed  aright. 

VIII 

Yesteeday  w^as  a  day  of  brisk  airs.  The  wind 
was  at  work  brushing  great  inky  clouds  out  of  the 
sky.  They  came  sailing  up,  those  great  rounded 
masses  of  dark  vapour,  like  huge  galleons  driving 
to  the  West,  spilling  their  freight  as  they  came. 
The  air  would  be  suddenly  full  of  tall  twisted  rain- 
streaks,  and  then  would  come  a  bright  burst  of  the 
sun. 

But  a  secret  change  came  in  the  night;  some 
silent  power  filled  the  air  with  Avarmth  and  balm. 


Spring-Time  43 

And  to-day,  when  I  walked  out  of  the  town  with 
an  old  and  familiar  friend,  the  spring  had  come. 
A  maple  had  broken  into  bloom  and  leaf;  a  chest- 
nut was  unfolding  his  gummy  buds;  the  cottage 
gardens  were  full  of  squills  and  hepatica;  and  the 
mezereons  were  all  thick  with  damask  buds.  In 
green  and  sheltered  underwoods  there  were  bursts 
of  daffodils ;  hedges  were  i^ricked  with  green  points ; 
and  a  delicate  green  tapestry  was  beginning  to 
weave  itself  over  the  roadside  ditches. 

The  air  seemed  full  of  a  deep  content.  Birds 
fluted  softly,  and  the  high  elms  which  stirred  in 
the  wandering  breezes  were  all  thick  with  their  red 
buds.  There  was  so  much  to  look  at  and  to  point 
out  that  we  talked  but  fitfully;  and  there  was, 
too,  a  gentle  languor  abroad  which  made  us  con- 
tent to  be  silent. 

In  one  village  which  we  passed,  a  music-loving 
squire  had  made  a  concert  for  his  friends  and  neigh- 
bours, and  doubtless,  too,  for  our  vagrant  delight; 
we  stood  uninvited  to  listen  to  a  tuneful  stir  of  vio- 
lins, which  with  a  violoncello  booming  beneath, 
broke  out  very  pleasantly  from  the  windows  of  a 
village  school-room. 

When  body  and  mind  are  fresh  and  viojorous, 
these  outside  impressions  often  lose,  I  think,  their 
sharp  savours.  One  is  preoccupied  with  one's  own 
happy  schemes  and  merry  visions;  the  bird  sings 


44  The  Thread  of  Gold 

shrill  wdthin  its  cage,  and  claps  its  golden  wings. 
But  on  such  soft  and  languorous  days  as  these  days 
of  early  spring,  when  the  body  is  unstrung,  and  the 
bonds  and  ties  that  fasten  the  soul  to  its  prison  are 
loosened  and  unbound,  the  spirit,  striving  to  be 
glad,  draws  in  through  the  passages  of  sense  these 
swift  impressions  of  beauty,  as  a  thirsty  child 
drains  a  cup  of  spring-water  on  a  sun-scorched 
day,  lingering  over  the  limpid  freshness  of  the  glid- 
ing element.  The  airy  voices  of  the  strings  being 
stilled,  with  a  sort  of  pity  for  those  penned  in  the 
crowded  room,  interchanging  the  worn  coinage  of 
civility,  we  stood  a  while  looking  in  at  a  gate, 
through  w^hich  we  could  see  the  cool  front  of  a 
Georgian  manor-house,  built  of  dusky  bricks,  with 
coigns  and  dressings  of  grey  stone.  The  dark 
windows  with  their  thick  white  casements,  the 
round-topped  dormers,  the  steps  up  to  the  door, 
and  a  prim  circle  of  grass  which  seemed  to  lie  like 
a  carpet  on  the  pale  gravel,  gave  the  feeling  of  a 
picture ;  the  whole  being  framed  in  the  sombre  yews 
of  shrubberies  which  bordered  the  drive.  It  was 
hard  to  feel  that  the  quiet  house  was  the  scene  of  a 
real  and  active  life;  it  seemed  so  full  of  a  slumber- 
ous peace,  and  to  be  tenanted  only  by  soft  shadows 
of  the  past.  And  so  we  went  slowly  on  by  the  huge 
white-boarded  mill,  its  cracks  streaming  with 
congealed  dust  of  wheat,  where  the  water  thun- 


Spring-Time  45 

dered  through  the  sluices  and  the  gear  rattled 
within. 

We  crossed  the  bridge,  and  walked  on  by  a  field- 
track  that  skirted  the  edge  of  the  wold.  How  thin 
and  clean  were  the  tints  of  the  dry  ploughlands  and 
the  long  sweej)  of  pasture!  Presently  we  were  at 
the  foot  of  a  green  drift-road,  an  old  Roman  high- 
way that  ran  straight  up  into  the  doA\'Tis.  On  such 
a  day  as  this,  one  follows  a  spirit  in  one's  feet,  as 
Shelley  said;  and  we  struck  up  into  the  wold,  on 
the  green  road,  with  its  thorn-thickets,  until  the 
chalk  began  to  show  white  among  the  ruts ;  and  we 
were  soon  at  the  top.  A  little  to  the  left  of  us  ap- 
peared, in  the  middle  of  the  pasture,  a  tiny  round- 
topped  tumulus  that  I  had  often  seen  from  a  lower 
road,  but  never  visited.  It  was  fresher  and  cooler 
up  here.  On  arriving  at  the  place  we  found  that 
it  was  not  a  tumulus  at  all,  but  a  little  out- 
crop of  the  pure  chalk.  It  had  steep,  scarped 
sides  with  traces  of  caves  scooped  in  them.  The 
grassy  top  commanded  a  wide  view  of  wold  and 
plain. 

Our  talk  wandered  over  many  things,  but  here, 
I  do  not  know  why,  we  were  speaking  of  the  taking 
up  of  old  friendships,  and  the  comfort  and  delight 
of  those  serene  and  undisturbed  relations  which  one 
sometimes  establishes  with  a  congenial  person, 
which  no  lapse  of  time  or  lack  of  communication 


46  The  Thread  or  Gold 

seems  to  interrupt — the  best  kind  of  friendship. 
There  is  here  no  blaming  of  conditions  that  may 
keep  the  two  Hves  apart;  no  feverish  attempt  to 
keep  up  the  relation,  no  resentment  if  mutual  in- 
tercourse dies  away.  And  then,  perhaps,  in  the 
shifting  of  conditions,  one's  life  is  again  brought 
near  to  the  life  of  one's  friend,  and  the  old  easy  in- 
tercourse  is  greatly  resumed.  My  companion  said 
that  such  a  relation  seemed  to  him  to  lie  as  near  to 
the  solution  of  the  question  of  the  preservation  of 
identity  after  death  as  any  other  phenomenon  of 
life.  "  Supposing,"  he  said,  "  that  such  a  friend- 
shij)  as  that  of  which  we  have  spoken  is  resumed 
after  a  break  of  twenty  years.  One  is  in  no  respect 
the  same  person;  one  looks  different,  one's  views  of 
life  have  altered,  and  physiologists  tell  us  that  one's 
body  has  changed  perhaps  three  times  over,  in  the 
time  so  that  there  is  not  a  particle  of  our  frame  that 
is  the  same ;  and  yet  the  emotion,  the  feeling  of  the 
friendship  remains,  and  remains  unaltered.  If  the 
stuff  of  our  thoughts  were  to  alter  as  the  materials 
of  our  body  alter,  the  continuity  of  such  an  emotion 
would  be  impossible.  Of  course  it  is  difficult  to 
see  how,  divested  of  the  body,  our  perceptions  can 
continue;  but  almost  the  only  thing  we  are  really 
conscious  of  is  our  own  identity,  our  sharp  separa- 
tion from  the  mass  of  phenomena  that  are  not  our- 
selves.    And,  if  an  emotion  can  survive  the  trans- 


Spring-Time  47 

mutation  of  the  entire  frame,  may  it  not  also  sur- 
vive the  dissokition  of  that  frame?" 

"Could  it  be  thus?"  I  said.  "A  ray  of  hght 
falls  through  a  chink  in  a  shutter;  through  the  ray^ 
as  we  watch  it,  floats  an  infinite  array  of  tiny 
motes,  and  it  is  through  the  striking  of  the  light 
upon  them  that  we  are  aware  of  the  light ;  but  they 
are  never  the  same.  Yet  the  ray  has  a  seeming 
identitj^  though  even  the  very  ripples  of  light  that 
cause  it  are  themselves  ever  changing,  ever  renewed. 
Could  not  the  soul  be  such  a  ray,  illuminating  the 
atoms  that  pass  through  it,  and  itself  a  perpetual 
motion,  a  constant  renewal?  " 

But  the  day  warned  us  to  descend.  The  shad- 
ows grew  longer,  and  a  great  pale  light  of  sunset 
began  to  gather  in  the  West.  We  came  slowly 
down  through  the  pastures,  till  we  joined  the  famil- 
iar road  again.  And  at  last  we  parted,  in  that  wist- 
ful silence  that  falls  upon  the  mood  when  two  spirits 
have  achieved  a  certain  nearness  of  thought,  have 
drawn  as  close  as  the  strange  fence  of  identitv  al- 
lows.  But  as  I  went  home,  I  stood  for  a  moment 
at  the  edge  of  a  pleasant  grove,  an  outlying 
pleasaunce  of  a  great  house  on  the  verge  of  the 
town.  The  trees  grew  straight  and  tall  within  it, 
and  all  the  underwood  was  full  of  spring  flo^vers 
and  green  ground-plants,  expanding  to  light  and 
warmth;  the  sky  was  all  full  of  hght,  dying  away 


48  The  Thread  of  Gold 

to  a  calm  and  liquid  green,  the  colour  of  peace. 
Here  I  encountered  another  friend,  a  retiring  man 
of  letters,  who  lives  apart  from  the  world  in  dreams 
of  his  own.  He  is  a  bright-eyed,  eager  creature, 
tall  and  shadowy,  who  has  but  a  slight  hold  upon 
the  world.  We  talked  for  a  few  moments  of  triv- 
ial things,  till  a  chance  question  of  mine  drew  from 
him  a  sad  statement  of  his  own  health.  He  had 
been  lately,  he  said,  to  a  physician,  and  had  been 
warned  that  he  was  in  a  somewhat  precarious  con- 
dition. I  tried  to  comfort  him,  but  he  shook  his 
head;  and  though  he  tried  to  speak  lightly  and 
cheerfully,  I  could  see  that  there  was  a  shadow  of 
doom  upon  him. 

As  I  turned  to  go,  he  held  up  his  hand,  "  Listen 
to  the  birds !  "  he  said.  We  were  silent,  and  could 
hear  the  clear  flute-like  notes  of  thrushes  hidden  in 
the  tall  trees,  and  the  soft  cooing  of  a  dove.  "  That 
gives  one,"  he  said,  "  some  sense  of  the  happiness 
which  one  cannot  capture  for  oneself!"  He 
smiled  mournfully,  and  in  a  moment  I  saw  his  light 
figure  receding  among  the  trees.  What  a  world  it 
is  for  sorrow!  My  friend  was  going,  bearing  the 
burden  of  a  lonely  grief,  which  I  could  not  lighten 
for  him;  and  yet  the  whole  scene  was  full  of  so 
sweet  a  content,  the  birds  full  of  hope  and  delight, 
the  flowers  and  leaves  glad  to  feel  themselves  alive. 
What  was  one  to  make  of  it  all?     Where  to  turn 


Speing-Time  49 

for  light?  What  conceivable  benefit  could  result 
from  thus  perpetually  desiring  to  know,  and  per- 
petually being  baffled  ? 

Yet,  after  all,  to-day  has  been  one  of  those  rare 
days,  like  the  gold  sifted  from  the  debris  of  the 
mine,  which  has  had  for  me,  by  some  subtle  alchemy 
of  the  spirit,  the  permanent  quality  which  is  often 
denied  to  more  stirring  incidents  and  livelier  ex- 
periences. I  had  seen  the  mysteries  of  life  and 
death,  of  joy  and  sorrow,  sharply  and  sadly  con- 
trasted. I  had  been  one  with  Nature,  with  all  her 
ardent  ecstasies,  her  vital  impulses  and  then  I  had 
seen  too  the  other  side  of  the  picture,  a  soul  con- 
fronted with  the  mystery  of  death,  alone  in  the 
shapeless  gloom;  the  very  cries  and  stirrings  and 
joyful  dreamiS  of  Nature  bringing  no  help,  but  only 
deepening  the  shadow. 

And  there  came  too  the  thought  of  how  little 
such  easy  speculations  as  we  had  indulged  in  on  the 
grassy  mound,  thoughts  which  seemed  so  radiant 
with  beauty  and  mystery,  how  little  they  could  sus- 
tain or  comfort  the  sad  spirit  which  had  entered  into 
the  cloud. 

So  that  bright  first  day  of  spring  shaped  itself 
for  me  into  a  day  when  not  only  the  innocent  and 
beautiful  flowers  of  the  world  rose  into  life  and  sun- 
shine; but  a  daj^  when  sadder  thoughts  raised  their 
head  too,  red  flowers  of  suffering,  and  pale  blooms 


50  The  Thread  of  Gold 

of  sadness ;  and  yet  these  too  can  be  woven  into  the 
spirit's  coronal,  I  doubt  not,  if  one  can  but  find 
heart  to  do  it,  and  patience  for  the  sorrowful  task. 


IX 

I  HAVE  just  read  a  story  that  has  moved  me 
strangely,  with  a  helpless  bewilderment  and  a  sad 
anger  of  mind.  When  the  doors  of  a  factory,  in 
the  heart  of  a  northern  town,  were  opened  one 
morning,  a  workman,  going  to  move  a  barrel  that 
stood  in  a  corner,  saw  something  crouching  behind 
it  that  he  believed  to  be  a  dog  or  cat.  He  pushed 
it  with  his  foot,  and  a  large  hare  sprang  out.  I 
suppose  that  the  poor  creature  had  been  probably 
startled  by  some  dog  the  evening  before,  in  a  field 
close  to  the  town,  had  fled  in  the  twilight  along  the 
streets,  frightened  and  bewildered,  and  had  slipped 
into  the  first  place  of  refuge  it  had  found ;  had  per- 
haps explored  its  prison  in  vain,  when  the  doors 
were  shut,  with  many  dreary  perambulations,  and 
had  then  sunk  into  an  uneasy  sleep,  with  frequent 
timid  awakenings,  in  the  terrifying  unfamiliar 
place. 

The  man  who  had  disturbed  it  shouted  aloud  to 
the  other  workmen  who  were  entering;  the  doors 
were  shut,  and  the  hare  was  chased  by  an  eager  and 


The  Hare  51 

excited  throng  from  corner  to  corner ;  it  fled  behind 
some  planks ;  the  planks  were  taken  up ;  it  made,  in 
its  agony  of  fear,  a  great  leap  over  the  men  who 
were  bending  down  to  catch  it;  it  rushed  into  a 
corner  behind  some  tanks,  from  which  it  was  dis- 
lodged with  a  stick.  For  half  an  hour  the  chase 
continued,  until  at  last  it  was  headed  into  a  work- 
room, where  it  relinquished  hope ;  it  crouched  pant- 
ing, with  its  long  ears  laid  back,  its  pretty  brown 
eyes  wide  open,  as  though  wondering  desperately 
what  it  had  done  to  deserve  such  usage ;  until  it  was 
despatched  with  a  shower  of  blows,  and  the  limp, 
bleeding  body  handed  over  to  its  original  discoverer. 
Not  a  soul  there  had  a  single  thought  of  pity  for 
the  creature;  they  went  back  to  work  pleased,  ex- 
cited, amused.  It  was  a  good  story  to  tell  for  a 
week,  and  the  man  who  had  struck  the  last  blows 
became  a  little  hero  for  his  deftness.  The  old  sav- 
age instinct  for  prey  had  swept  fiercely  up  from  the 
bottom  of  these  rough  hearts — hearts  capable,  too, 
of  tenderness  and  grief,  of  compassion  for  suffer- 
ing, gentle  with  women  and  children.  It  seems  to 
be  impossible  to  blame  them,  and  such  blame  would 
have  been  looked  upon  as  silly  and  misplaced  senti- 
ment. Probably  not  even  an  offer  of  money,  far 
in  excess  of  the  market  value  of  the  dead  body,  if 
the  hare  could  be  caught  unharmed,  would  have  pre- 
vailed at  the  moment  over  the  instinct  for  blood. 


52  The  Thread  of  Gold 

There  are  many  hares  in  the  world,  no  doubt,  and 
nous  sommes  tous  condamncs.  But  that  the  power 
which  could  call  into  being  so  harmless,  pretty,  and 
delicatelj^  organised  a  creature  does  not  care  or  is 
unable  to  protect  it  better,  is  a  strange  mystery.  It 
cannot  be  supposed  that  the  hare's  innocent  life  de- 
served such  chastisement;  and  it  is  difficult  to  be- 
lieve that  suffering,  helplessly  endured  at  one  point 
of  the  creation,  can  be  remedial  at  another.  Yet 
one  cannot  bear  to  think  that  the  extremity  of  terror 
and  pain,  thus  borne  by  a  sensitive  creature,  either 
comes  of  neglect,  or  of  cruel  purpose,  or  is  merely 
wasted.  And  yet  the  chase  and  the  slaughter  of 
the  unhappy  thing  cannot  be  anything  but  debas- 
ing to  those  who  took  part  in  it.  And  at  the  same 
time,  to  be  angry  and  sorry  over  so  Avretched  an 
episode  seems  like  trying  to  be  mser  than  the  mind 
that  made  us.  What  single  gleam  of  brightness 
is  it  possible  to  extract  from  the  pitiful  little  story? 
Only  this:  that  there  must  lie  some  tender  secret, 
not  only  behind  what  seems  a  deed  of  unnecessary 
cruelty,  but  in  the  implanting  in  us  of  the  instinct 
to  grieve  with  a  miserable  indignation  over  a  thing 
we  cannot  cure,  and  even  in  the  wdthholding  from 
us  any  hope  that  might  hint  at  the  solution  of  the 
mystery. 

But  the  thought  of  the  seemly  fur  stained  and 
bedabbled,  the  bright  hazel  eyes  troubled  with  the 


The  Diplodocus  53 

fear  of  death,  the  silky  ears,  in  which  rang  the  hor- 
rid din  of  pursuit,  rises  before  me  as  I  write,  and 
casts  me  back  into  the  sad  mood,  that  makes  one 
feel  that  the  closer  that  one  gazes  into  the  sorrow- 
ful texture  of  the  world,  the  more  glad  we  may  well 
be  to  depart. 


X 


I  HAVE  had  my  imagination  deeply  thrilled  lately 
by  reading  about  the  discovery  in  America  of  the 
bones  of  a  fossil  animal  called  the  Diplodocus.  I 
hardly  know  what  the  word  is  derived  from,  but  it 
might  possibly  mean  an  animal  which  takes  twice  as 
much,  of  nourishment,  perhaps,  or  room;  either 
twice  as  much  as  is  good  for  it,  or  twice  as  much  as 
any  other  animal.  In  either  case  it  seems  a  felicit- 
ous description.  The  creature  was  a  reptile,  a 
gigantic  toad  or  lizard  that  lived,  it  is  calculated, 
about  three  million  years  ago.  It  was  in  Canada 
that  this  particular  creature  lived.  The  earth  was 
then  a  far  hotter  place  than  now ;  a  terrible,  steam- 
ing swamp,  full  of  rank  and  luxuriant  vegetation, 
gigantic  palms,  ferns  as  big  as  trees.  The  diplodo- 
cus was  upwards  of  a  hundred  feet  long,  a  vast 
inert  creature,  with  a  tough  black  hide.  In  spite  of 
its  enormous  bulk  its  brain  was  only  the  size  of  a 


54  The  Thread  of  Gold 

pigeon's  egg,  so  that  its  mental  processes  must 
have  been  of  the  simplest.  It  had  a  big  mouth  full 
of  rudimentary  teeth,  of  no  use  to  masticate  its 
food,  but  just  sufficing  to  crop  the  luxuriant  juicy 
vegetable  stalks  on  which  it  lived,  and  of  which  it 
ate  in  the  course  of  the  day  as  much  as  a  small  hay- 
rick would  contain.  The  poisonous  swamps  in 
which  it  crept  can  seldom  have  seen  the  light  of  day ; 
perpetual  and  appalling  torrents  of  rain  must  have 
raged  there,  steaming  and  dripping  through  the 
dim  and  monstrous  forests,  with  their  fallen  day, 
varied  by  long  periods  of  fiery  tropical  sunshine. 
In  this  hot  gloom  the  diplodocus  trailed  itself  about, 
eating,  eating ;  living  a  century  or  so ;  loving,  as  far 
as  a  brain  the  size  of  a  pigeon's  egg  can  love,  and 
no  doubt  with  a  maternal  tenderness  for  its  loathly 
offspring.  It  had  but  few  foes,  though,  in  the 
course  of  endless  generations,  there  sprang  up  a 
carnivorous  race  of  creatures  which  seem  to  have 
found  the  diplodocus  tender  eating.  The  particu- 
lar diplodocus  of  which  I  speak  probably  died  of 
old  age  in  the  act  of  drinking,  and  was  engulfed  in 
a  pool  of  the  great,  curdling,  reedy  river  that  ran 
lazily  tlii'ough  the  forest.  The  imagination  sick- 
ens before  the  thought  of  the  speedy  putrefaction 
of  such  a  beast  under  such  conditions ;  but  this  pro- 
cess over,  the  creature's  bones  lay  deep  in  the  pool. 
Another  feature  of  the  earth  at  that  date  must 


The  Diplodocus  55 

have  been  the  vast  volcanic  agencies  at  work ;  whole 
continents  were  at  intervals  submerged  or  uplifted. 
In  this  case  the  whole  of  the  forest  country,  where 
the  diplodocus  lay,  was  submerged  beneath  the  sea, 
and  sank  to  a  depth  of  several  leagues;  for,  in  the 
course  of  countless  ages,  sea-ooze,  to  a  depth  of  at 
least  three  miles,  was  deposited  over  the  forest,  pre- 
serving the  trunks  and  even  the  very  sprays  of  the 
tropical  vegetation.  Who  M^ould  suppose  that  the 
secret  history  of  this  great  beast  would  ever  be  re- 
vealed, as  it  lay  century  after  century  beneath  the 
sea-floor?  But  another  convulsion  took  place,  and 
a  huge  ridge  of  country,  forming  the  rocky  back- 
bone of  North  and  South  America,  was  thrust  up 
again  by  a  volcanic  convulsion,  so  that  the  diplodo- 
cus now  lay  a  mile  above  the  sea,  with  a  vast  pile 
of  downs  over  his  head  which  became  a  huge  range 
of  snow  mountains.  Then  the  rain  and  the  sun 
began  their  work ;  and  the  whole  of  the  immense  bed 
of  uplifted  ocean-silt,  now  become  chalk,  was  car- 
ried eastward  by  mighty  rivers,  forming  the  whole 
continent  of  North  America,  between  these  moun- 
tains and  the  eastern  sea.  At  last  the  tropic  forest 
was  revealed  again,  a  wide  tract  of  petrified  tree- 
trunks  and  fossil  wood.  And  then  out  of  an  ex- 
cavation, made  where  one  of  the  last  patches  of  the 
chalk  still  lay  in  a  rift  of  the  hills,  where  the  old 
river-pool  had  been  into  which  the  great  beast  had 


56  The  Thread  of  Gold 

sunk,  was  dug  the  neckbone  of  the  creature.  Curi- 
osity was  aroused  by  the  sight  of  this  fragment  of 
an  unknown  animal,  and  bit  by  bit  the  great  bones 
came  to  hght;  some  portions  were  missing,  but 
further  search  revealed  the  remains  of  three  other 
specimens  of  the  great  lizard,  and  a  complete  skele- 
ton was  put  together. 

The  mind  positively  reels  before  the  story  that 
is  here  revealed;  we,  who  are  feebly  accustomed  to 
regard  the  course  of  recorded  history  as  the  cru- 
cial and  critical  period  of  the  life  of  the  world,  must 
be  sobered  by  the  reflection  that  the  whole  of  the 
known  historj^  of  the  human  race  is  not  the  thous- 
andth, nor  the  ten-thousandth  part  of  the  histoiy 
of  the  planet.  What  does  this  vast  and  incredible 
panorama  mean  to  us  ?  What  is  it  all  about  ?  This 
ghastly  force  at  work,  dealing  with  life  and  death 
on  so  incredible  a  scale,  and  yet  guarding  its  secret 
so  close?  The  diplodocus,  I  imagine,  seldom  in- 
dulged in  reveries  as  to  how  it  came  to  be  there;  it 
awoke  to  life ;  its  business  was  to  crawl  about  in  the 
hot  gloom,  to  eat,  and  drink,  and  sleep,  to  propa- 
gate its  kind ;  and  not  the  least  amazing  part  of  the 
history  is  that  at  length  should  have  arisen  a  race 
of  creatures,  human  beings,  that  should  be  able  to 
reconstruct,  however  faintly,  by  investigation, 
imagination,  and  deduction,  a  picture  of  the  dead 
life  of  the  world.     It  is  this  capacity  for  arriving  at 


The  Diplodocus  57 

what  has  been,  for  tracing  out  the  huge  mystery  of 
the  work  of  God,  that  appears  to  me  the  most  won- 
derful thing  of  all.  And  yet  we  seem  no  nearer  to 
the  solution  of  the  secret;  we  come  into  the  world 
with  this  incredible  gift  of  placing  ourselves,  so 
to  speak,  on  the  side  of  the  Creator,  of  surveying 
his  work;  and  yet  we  cannot  guess  what  is  in  his 
heart;  the  stern  and  majestic  eyes  of  nature  behold 
us  stonily,  permitting  us  to  make  question,  to  ex- 
plore, to  investigate,  but  withliolding  the  secret. 
And  in  the  light  of  those  inscrutable  eyes,  how 
weak  and  arrogant  appear  our  dogmatic  systems 
of  religion,  that  would  profess  to  define  and  read 
the  very  purposes  of  God;  our  dearest  conceptions 
of  morality,  our  pathetic  principles,  pale  and  fade 
before  these  gigantic  indications  of  mysterious,  in- 
different energy. 

Yet  even  here,  I  think,  the  golden  thread  gleams 
out  in  the  darkness;  for  slight  and  frail  as  our  so- 
called  knowledge,  our  beliefs,  appear,  before  that 
awful,  accumulated  testimony  of  the  past,  yet  the 
latest  development  is  none  the  less  the  instant  guid- 
ing of  God ;  it  is  all  as  much  a  gift  from  him  as  the 
blind  impulses  of  the  great  lizard  in  the  dark  forest ; 
and  again  there  emerges  the  mighty  thought,  the 
only  thought  that  can  give  us  the  peace  we  seek, 
that  we  are  all  in  his  hand,  that  nothing  is  forgot- 
ten, nothing  is  small  or  great  in  his  sight ;  and  that 


58  The  Thread  of  Gold 

each  of  our  frail,  trembling  spirits  has  its  place  in 
the  prodigious  scheme,  as  much  as  the  vast  and  fiery 
globe  of  the  sun  on  the  one  hand,  and,  on  the  other, 
the  smallest  atom  of  dust  that  welters  deep  beneath 
the  sea.  All  that  is,  exists;  indestructible,  august, 
divine,  capable  of  endless  rearrangement,  infinite 
modifications,  but  undeniably  there. 

This  truth,  however  dimly  apprehended,  how- 
ever fitfully  followed,  ought  to  give  us  a  certain 
confidence,  a  certain  patience.  In  careless  moods 
we  may  neglect  it;  in  days  of  grief  and  pain  we 
ma};-  feel  that  it  cannot  help  us ;  but  it  is  the  truth ; 
and  the  more  we  can  make  it  our  own,  the  deeper 
that  we  can  set  it  in  our  trivial  spirits,  the  better 
are  we  prepared  to  learn  the  lesson  which  the  deep- 
est instinct  of  our  nature  bids  us  believe,  that  the 
Father  is  trying  to  teach  us,  or  is  at  least  willing 
that  we  should  learn  if  we  can. 


% 


XI 


How  strange  it  is  that  sometimes  the  smallest 
and  commonest  incident,  that  has  befallen  one  a 
hundred  times  before,  will  suddenly  open  the  door  f 

into  that  shapeless  land  of  fruitless  speculation;  the 
land  on  to  which,  I  think,  the  Star  Wormwood  fell. 


The  Beetle  59 

burning  it  up  and  making  it  bitter;  tbe  land  in 
which  we  most  of  us  sometimes  have  to  wander, 
and  always  alone. 

It  was  such  a  trifling  thing  after  all.  I  was 
bicycling  very  pleasantly  down  a  country  road  to- 
day, when  one  of  those  small  pungent  beetles,  a 
tiny  thing,  in  black  plate-armour,  for  all  the  world 
like  a  minute  torpedo,  sailed  straight  into  my  eye. 
The  eyelid,  quicker  even  than  my  own  thought,  shut 
itself  down,  but  too  late.  The  little  fellow  Avas 
engulphed  in  what  Walt  Whitman  would  call  the 
liquid  rims.  These  small,  hard  creatures  are  ten- 
acious of  life,  and  they  have,  moreover,  the  power  of 
exuding  a  noxious  secretion — an  acrid  oil,  with  a 
strong  scent,  and  even  taste,  of  saffron.  It  was  all 
over  in  a  moment.  I  rubbed  my  eye,  and  I  sup- 
pose crushed  him  to  death ;  but  I  could  not  get  him 
out,  and  I  had  no  companion  to  extract  him ;  the  re- 
sult was  that  my  eye  was  painful  and  inflamed  for 
an  hour  or  two,  till  the  tiny,  black,  flattened  corpse 
worked  its  way  out  for  itself. 

Now,  that  is  not  a  very  marvellous  incident ;  but 
it  set  me  wondering.  In  the  first  place,  what  a 
horrible  experience  for  the  creature;  in  a  moment, 
as  he  sailed  joyfully  along,  saying,  "  Aha,"  per- 
haps, like  the  war-horse  among  the  trumpets,  on 
the  scented  summer  breeze,  A\ith  the  sun  warm  on 
his  mail,  to  find  himself  stuck  fast  in  a  hot  and  oozy 


I 


60  The  Thread  of  Gold 

crevice,  and  presently  to  be  crushed  to  death.  His 
httle  taste  of  the  pleasant  world  so  soon  over,  and 
for  me  an  agreeable  hour  spoilt,  so  far  as  I  could 
see,  to  no  particular  purpose. 

Now,  one  is  inclined  to  believe  that  such  an  in- 
cident is  what  we  call  fortuitous ;  but  the  only  hope 
we  have  in  the  world  is  to  believe  that  things  do  not 
happen  by  chance.  One  believes,  or  tries  to  be- 
lieve, that  the  Father  of  all  has  room  in  his  mind  for 
the  smallest  of  his  creatures ;  that  not  a  sparrow,  as 
Christ  said,  falls  to  the  ground  without  his  tender 
care.  Theologians  tell  us  that  death  entered  into 
the  world  by  sin;  but  it  is  not  consistent  to  believe 
that,  whereas  both  men  and  animals  suffer  and  die, 
the  sufferings  and  death  of  men  are  caused  by  their 
sins,  or  by  the  sins  of  their  ancestors,  while  animals 
suffer  and  die  without  sin  being  the  cause.  Surely 
the  cause  must  be  the  same  for  all  the  creation? 
And  still  less  is  it  possible  to  believe  that  the 
suffering  and  death  of  creatures  is  caused  by  the 
sin  of  man,  because  they  suffered  and  died  for 
thousands  of  centuries  before  man  came  upon  the 
scene. 

If  God  is  omnipotent  and  all-loving,  we  are 
bound  to  believe  that  suffering  and  death  are  sent 
by  him  deliberately,  and  not  cruelly.  One  single 
instance,  however  minute,  that  established  the  re- 
verse, would  vitiate  the  whole  theory ;  and  if  so,  then 


The  Beetle  61 

we  are  the  sport  of  a  power  that  is  sometimes 
kind  and  sometimes  mahgnant.  An  insupportable 
thought ! 

Is  it  possible  to  conceive  that  the  law  of  sin 
works  in  the  lower  creation,  and  that  they,  too,  are 
punished,  or  even  wisely  corrected,  for  sinning 
against  such  light  as  they  have?  Had  the  little 
beetle  that  sailed  across  my  path  acted  in  such  a 
way  that  he  had  deserved  his  fate?  Or  was  his 
death  meant  to  make  him  a  better,  a  larger-minded 
beetle?  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  believe  that. 
Perhaps  a  philosophical  theologian  would  say  that 
creation  was  all  one,  and  that  suffering  at  one  point 
was  remedial  at  some  other  point.  I  am  not  in  a 
position  to  deny  the  possibility  of  that,  but  I  am 
equally  unable  to  affirm  that  it  is  so.  There  is  no 
evidence  which  would  lead  me  to  think  it.  It  only 
seems  to  me  necessary  to  affirm  it,  in  order  to  con- 
firm the  axiom  that  God  is  omnipotent  and  all- 
loving.  Much  in  nature  and  in  human  life  would 
seem  to  be  at  variance  with  that. 

It  may  be  said  that  one  is  making  too  much  of  a 
minute  incident;  but  such  incidents  are  of  hourly 
occurrence  all  the  world  over ;  and  the  only  possible 
method  for  arriving  at  truth  is  the  scientific  method 
of  cumulative  evidence.  The  beetle  was  small,  in- 
deed, and  infinitely  unimportant  in  the  scheme  of 
things.     But  he  was  all  in  all  to  himself.     The 


62  The  Thread  of  Gold 

world  only  existed  so  far  as  he  was  concerned 
through  his  tiny  consciousness. 

The  old-fashioned  religious  jphilosophers  held 
that  man  was  the  crown  and  centre  of  creation,  and 
that  God  was  mainly  preoccupied  with  man's  des- 
tiny. They  maintained  that  all  creatures  were 
given  us  for  our  use  and  enjoyment.  The  enjoy- 
ment that  I  derived  from  the  beetle,  in  this  case, 
was  not  conspicuous.  But  I  suppose  that  such 
cheerful  optimists  would  say  that  the  beetle  was 
sent  to  give  me  a  little  lesson  in  patience,  to  teach 
me  not  to  think  so  much  about  myself.  But,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  little  pain  I  suffered  made  me 
think  more  of  myself  than  I  had  previously  been 
doing;  it  turned  me  for  the  time  from  a  bland  and 
hedonistic  philosopher  into  a  petulant  pessimist,  be- 
cause it  seemed  that  no  one  was  the  better  for  the 
incident;  certainly,  if  life  is  worth  having  at  all, 
the  beetle  was  no  better  off,  and  in  my  own  case  I 
could  trace  no  moral  improvement.  I  had  been 
harmlessly  enough  employed  in  getting  air  and 
exercise  in  the  middle  of  hard  work.  It  was  no 
vicious  enjoyment  that  was  temj)orarily  suspended. 

Again,  there  are  people  who  would  say  that  to 
indulge  in  such  reveries  is  morbid;  that  one  must 
take  the  rough  with  the  smooth,  and  not  trouble 
about  beetles  or  inflamed  eyes.  But  if  one  is 
haunted  by  the  hopeless  desire  to  search  out  the 


The  Beetle  63 

causes  of  things,  such  arguments  do  not  assist  one. 
Such  people  would  say,  "  Oh,  you  must  take  a 
larger  or  wider  view  of  it  all,  and  not  strain  at 
gnats !  "  But  the  essence  of  God's  omnipotence 
is,  that  while  he  can  take  the  infinitely  wide  view  of 
all  created  things,  he  can  also  take,  I  would  fain 
believe,  the  infinitel}^  just  and  minute  point  of  view, 
and  see  the  case  from  the  standpoint  of  the  smallest 
of  his  creatures! 

What,  then,  is  my  solution?  That  is  the  melan- 
choly part  if  it ;  I  am  not  prepared  to  offer  one.  I 
am  met  on  every  side  by  hopeless  difficulties.  I  am 
tempted  to  think  that  God  is  not  at  all  what  we 
imagine  him  to  be;  that  our  concej)tions  of  bene- 
volence and  justice  and  love  are  not  necessarily  true 
of  him  at  all.  That  he  is  not  in  the  least  like  our 
conceptions  of  him;  that  he  has  no  particular  ten- 
derness about  suffering,  no  particular  care  for  ani- 
mal life.  Nature  would  seem  to  prove  that  at  every 
turn;  and  yet,  if  it  be  true,  it  leaves  me  struggling 
in  a  sad  abyss  of  thought;  it  substitutes  for  our 
grave,  beautiful,  and  hopeful  concej)tions  of  God 
a  kind  of  black  mystery  which,  I  confess,  lies  very 
heavy  on  the  heart,  and  seems  to  make  effort  vain. 

And  thus  I  fall  back  again  upon  faith  and  hope. 
I  know  that  I  wish  all  things  well,  that  I  desire 
with  all  my  heart  that  everything  that  breathes  and 
moves  should  be  happy  and  joyful;  and  I  cannot 


(54>  The  Thread  of  Gold 

believe  in  my  heart  that  it  is  different  with  God. 
And  thus  I  rest  in  the  trust  that  there  is  some- 
where, far-off,  a  beauty  and  a  joy  in  suffering;  and 
that,  perhaps,  death  itself  is  a  fair  and  a  desirable 
thing. 

As  I  rode  to-day  in  the  summer  sun,  far-off, 
through  the  haze,  I  could  see  the  huge  Cathedral 
towers  and  portals  looming  up  over  the  trees. 
Even  so  might  be  the  gate  of  death!  As  we  fare 
upon  our  pilgrimage,  that  shadowy  doorway  waits, 
silent  and  sombre,  to  receive  us.  That  gate,  the 
gate  of  death,  seems  to  me,  as  in  strength  and  health 
I  sweep  along  the  pleasant  road  of  life,  a  terrible, 
an  appalling  place.  But  shall  I  feel  so,  when  in- 
deed I  tread  the  threshold,  and  see  the  dark  arches, 
the  mysterious  windows  to  left  and  right?  It  may 
prove  a  cool  and  secure  haven  of  beauty  and  re- 
freshment, rich  in  memory,  echoing  mth  melodious 
song.  The  poor  beetle  knows  about  it  now,  what- 
ever it  is;  he  is  wise  with  the  eternal  wisdom  of  all 
that  have  entered  in,  leaving  behind  them  the  frail 
and  delicate  tabernacle,  in  which  the  spirit  dwelt, 
and  which  is  so  soon  to  moulder  into  dust. 

XII 

There  is  a  big  farm5''ard  close  to  the  house  where 
I  am  staying  just  now;  it  is  a  constant  pleasure,  as 


The  Farm-yaed  65 

I  pass  that  way,  to  stop  and  watch  the  manners  and 
customs  of  the  beasts  and  birds  that  inhabit  it;  I 
am  ashamed  to  think  how  much  time  I  spend  in 
hanging  over  a  gate,  to  watch  the  httle  dramas  of 
the  byre.  I  am  not  sure  that  pigs  are  an  altogether 
satisfactory  subject  of  contemplation.  They  al- 
ways seem  to  me  like  a  fallen  race  that  has  seen  bet- 
ter days.  They  are  able,  intellectual,  inquisitive 
creatures.  When  they  are  driven  from  place  to 
place,  they  are  not  gentle  or  meek,  like  cows  and 
sheep,  who  follow  the  line  of  least  resistance.  The 
pig  is  suspicious  and  cautious ;  he  is  sure  that  there 
is  some  uncomfortable  plot  on  foot,  not  wholly  for 
his  good,  which  he  must  try  to  thwart  if  he  can. 
Then,  too,  he  never  seems  quite  at  home  in  his  de- 
plorably filthy  surroundings;  he  looks  at  you,  up 
to  the  knees  in  ooze,  out  of  his  little  eves,  as  if  he 
would  hve  in  a  more  cleanly  way,  if  he  were  per- 
mitted. Pigs  always  remind  me  of  the  mariners  of 
Homer,  who  were  transformed  by  Circe;  there  is  a 
dreadful  humanity  about  them,  as  if  they  were  try- 
ing to  endure  their  base  conditions  philosophically, 
waiting  for  their  release. 

But  cows  bring  a  deep  tranquillity  into  the  spirit ; 
their  glossy  skins,  their  fragrant  breath,  their  con- 
tented ease,  their  mild  gaze,  their  Epicurean  rumin- 
ation tend  to  restore  the  balance  of  the  mind,  and 
make  one  feel  that  vegetarianism  must  be  a 
5 


66  The  Thke.vd  of  Gold 

desirable  thing.  There  is  the  dignity  of  innocence 
about  the  cow,  and  I  often  wish  that  she  did  not 
bear  so  poor  a  name,  a  word  so  unsuitable  for 
poetry;  it  is  lamentable  that  one  has  to  take  refuge 
in  the  archaism  of  kine,  when  the  thing  itself  is  so 
gentle  and  pleasant. 

But  the  true  joy  of  the  farm-yard  is,  undoubtedly, 
in  the  domestic  fowls.  It  is  long  since  I  was 
frightened  of  turkeys;  but  I  confess  that  there  is 
still  something  awe-inspiring  about  an  old  turkey- 
cock,  ^ith  a  proud  and  angry  eye,  holding  his 
breath  till  his  wattles  are  blue  and  swollen,  with  his 
fan  extended,  like  a  galleon  in  full  sail,  his  wings 
held  stiffly  down,  strutting  a  few  rapid  steps,  and 
then  slowly  revolving,  like  a  king  in  royal  robes. 
There  is  something  tremendous  about  his  suprem- 
acy, his  almost  intolerable  pride  and  glory. 

And  then  we  come  to  cocks  and  hens.  The 
farm-yard  cock  is  an  incredibly  grotesque  creature. 
His  furious  eye,  his  blood-red  crest,  make  him  look 
as  if  he  were  seeking  whom  he  might  devour.  But 
he  is  the  most  craven  of  creatures.  In  spite  of  his 
air  of  just  anger,  he  has  no  dignity  whatever.  To 
hear  him  raise  his  voice,  you  would  think  that  he 
was  challenging  the  whole  world  to  combat.  He 
screams  defiance,  and  when  he  has  done,  he  looks 
round  with  an  air  of  satisfaction.  "  There!  that  is 
what  you  have  to  expect  if  you  interfere  with  me !  " 


The  FARM-YiVRD  67 

he  seems  to  say.  But  an  alarm  is  given;  the  poul- 
try seek  refuge  in  a  hurried  flight.  Where  is  the 
champion?  You  would  expect  to  see  him  guard- 
ing the  rear,  menacing  his  pursuer;  but  no,  he  has 
headed  the  flight,  he  is  far  away,  leading  the  van 
with  a  desperate  intentness. 

This  morning  I  was  watching  the  behaviour  of 
a  party  of  fowls,  who  were  sitting  together  on  a 
dusty  ledge  above  the  road,  sheltering  from  the 
wind.  I  do  not  know  whether  they  meant  to  be  as 
humorous  as  they  were,  but  I  can  hardly  think  they 
were  not  amused  at  each  other.  They  stood  and 
lay  very  close  together,  with  fierce  glances,  and 
quick,  jerky  motions  of  the  head.  Now  and  then 
one,  tired  of  inaction,  raised  a  deliberate  claw,  bowed 
its  head,  scratched  with  incredible  rapidity,  shook 
its  tumbled  feathers,  and  looked  round  with  angry 
self-consciousness,  as  though  to  say:  "I  will  ask 
any  one  to  think  me  absurd  at  his  peril."  Now  and 
then  one  of  them  kicked  diligently  at  the  soil,  and 
then,  turning  round,  scrutinised  the  place  intently, 
and  picked  delicately  at  some  minute  object.  One 
examined  the  neck  of  her  neighbour  with  a  fixed 
stare,  and  then  pecked  the  spot  sharply.  One  set- 
tled down  on  the  dust,  and  gave  a  few  vigorous 
strokes  with  her  legs  to  make  herself  more  comfort- 
able. Occasionally  they  all  crooned  and  wailed  to- 
gether, and  at  the  passing  of  a  cart  all  stood  up 


68  The  Thread  of  Gold 

defiantly,  as  if  intending  to  hold  their  fort  at  all 
hazards.  Presently  a  woman  came  out  of  a  house- 
door  opposite,  at  which  the  whole  party  ran  furi- 
ously and  breathlessly  across  the  road,  as  if  their 
lives  depended  upon  arriving  in  time.  There  was 
not  a  gesture  or  a  motion  that  was  not  admirably 
conceived,  intensely  dramatic. 

Again,  what  is  more  delightfully  absurd  than  to 
see  a  hen  find  a  large  morsel  which  she  cannot  deal 
with  at  one  gulp?  She  has  no  sense  of  diplomacy 
or  cunning;  her  friends,  attracted  by  her  motions, 
close  in  about  her;  she  picks  up  the  treasured  pro- 
vender, she  runs,  bewildered  with  anxiety,  till  she 
has  distanced  her  pursuers;  she  puts  the  object  down 
and  takes  a  couple  of  desperate  pecks;  but  her  kin 
are  at  her  heels ;  another  flight  follows,  another  wild 
attempt ;  for  half  an  hour  the  same  tactics  are  pur- 
sued. At  last  she  is  at  bay;  she  makes  one  pro- 
digious effort,  and  gets  the  treasure  down  with 
a  convulsive  swallow;  you  see  her  neck  bulge  with 
the  moving  object;  while  she  looks  at  her  baffled 
companions  with  an  air  of  meek  triumph. 

Ducks,  too,  afford  many  simple  joys  to  the  con- 
templative mind.  A  slow  procession  of  white 
ducks,  walking  delicately,  with  heads  lifted  high 
and  timid  eyes,  in  a  long  line,  has  the  air  of  an 
ecclesiastical  procession.  The  singers  go  before, 
the  minstrels  follow  after.       There  is  something 


The  Farm- yard  69 

liturgical,  too,  in  the  way  in  which,  as  if  by  a  pre- 
concerted signal,  they  all  cry  out  together,  stand- 
ing in  a  group,  with  a  burst  of  hoarse  cheering, 
cut  off  suddenly  by  an  intolerable  silence.  The 
arrival  of  ducks  upon  the  scene,  when  the  fowls  are 
fed,  is  an  impressive  sight.  They  stamp  wildly 
over  the  pasture,  falling,  stumbling,  rising  again, 
arrive  on  the  scene  with  a  desj)erate  intentness,  and 
eat  as  though  they  had  not  seen  food  for  months. 

The  pleasure  of  these  farm-yard  sights  is  two- 
fold. It  is  partly  the  sense  of  grave,  unconscious 
importance  about  the  whole  business,  serious  lives 
lived  with  such  whole-hearted  zeal.  There  is  no 
sense  of  divided  endeavour;  the  discovery  of  food 
is  the  one  thing  in  the  world,  and  the  sense  of  re- 
pletion is  also  the  sense  of  virtue.  But  there  is 
something  pathetic,  too,  about  the  taming  to  our 
own  ends  of  these  forest  beasts,  these  woodland 
birds ;  they  are  so  unconscious  of  the  sad  reasons  for 
which  we  desire  their  company,  so  unsuspicious,  so 
serene!  Instead  of  learning  by  the  sorrowful  ex- 
perience of  generations  what  our  dark  purposes  are, 
they  become  more  and  more  fraternal,  more  and 
more  dependent.  And  yet  how  little  Ave  really 
know  what  their  thoughts  are.  They  are  so  unin- 
telligent in  some  regions,  so  subtly  wise  in  others. 
We  cannot  share  our  thoughts  with  them;  we  can- 
not explain  anything  to  them.     We  can  sympathise 


70  The  Thre^\d  of  Gold 

with  them  in  their  troubles,  but  cannot  convey  our 
sympathy  to  them.  There  is  a  httle  bantam  hen 
here,  a  great  pet,  who  comes  up  to  the  front  door 
with  the  other  bantams  to  be  fed.  She  has  been 
suffering  for  some  time  from  an  obscure  illness. 
She  arrives  with  the  others,  full  of  excitement,  and 
begins  to  pick  at  the  grain  thrown  them;  but  the 
effort  soon  exhausts  her;  she  goes  sadly  apart,  and 
sits  with  dim  eye  and  ruffled  plumage,  in  silent  suf- 
fering, wondering,  perhaps,  why  she  is  not  as  brisk 
and  joyful  as  ever,  what  is  the  sad  thing  that  has 
befallen  her.  And  one  can  do  nothing,  express 
nothing  of  the  pathetic  sorrow  that  fills  one's  mind. 
But,  none  the  less,  one  tries  to  believe,  to  feel,  that 
this  suffering  is  not  fortuitous,  is  not  wasted — how 
could  one  endure  the  thought  otherwise,  if  one  did 
not  hope  that  "  the  earnest  expectation  of  the 
creature  waiteth  for  the  manifestation  of  the  sons 
of  God!" 

XIII 

I  HAVE  been  reading  with  much  emotion  the  life 
of  a  great  artist.  It  is  a  tender,  devoted  record; 
and  there  is  an  atmosphere  of  delicate  beauty  about 
the  style.  It  is  as  though  his  wife,  who  wrote  the 
book,  had  gained  through  the  years  of  companion- 
ship, a  pale,  pure  reflection  of  her  husband's  simple 


t 


The  Artist  71 

and  impassioned  style,  just  as  the  moon's  clear,  cold 
light  is  drawn  from  the  hot  fountains  of  the  sun. 
And  yet,  there  is  an  individuality  about  the  style, 
and  the  reflection  is  rather  of  the  same  nature  as  the 
patient  likeness  of  expression  which  is  to  be  seen  in 
the  faces  of  an  aged  pair,  who  have  travelled  in  love 
and  unity  down  the  vale  of  years  together. 

In  this  artist's  own  writing,  which  has  a  pure  and 
almost  childlike  naivete  of  phrasing,  there  is  a  glow, 
not  of  rhetoric  or  language,  but  of  emotion,  an  al- 
most lover-like  attitude  towards  his  friends,  which 
is  yet  saved  from  sentimentality  by  an  obvious 
sincerity  of  feeling.  In  this  he  seems  to  me  to  be  dif- 
ferent from  the  majority  of  artistic  natures  and  tem- 
peraments. It  is  impossible  not  to  feel,  as  a  rule, 
when  one  is  brought  into  contact  wdth  an  artistic 
temperament,  that  the  basis  of  it  is  a  kind  of  hard- 
ness, a  fanaticism  of  spirit.  There  is,  of  course,  in 
the  artistic  temperament,  an  abundance  of  sensi- 
tiveness which  is  often  mistaken  for  feeling.  But 
it  is  not  generally  an  unselfish  devotion,  which  de- 
sires to  give,  to  lavish,  to  make  sacrifices  for  the 
sake  of  the  beloved.  It  is,  after  all,  impossible  to 
serve  two  masters;  and  in  the  highly  developed 
artist,  the  central  passion  is  the  devotion  to  art,  and 
sins  against  art  are  the  cardinal  and  unpardonable 
sins.  The  artist  has  an  eager  thirst  for  beautiful 
impressions,   and  his   deepest   concern   is  how  to 


72  The  Thread  of  Gold 

translate  these  impressions  into  the  medium  in 
"which  he  works.  INIany  an  artist  has  desired  and 
craved  for  love.  But  even  love  in  the  artist  is  not 
the  end ;  love  only  ministers  to  the  sacred  fire  of  art, 
and  is  treated  by  him  as  a  costty  and  precious  fuel, 
which  he  is  bound  to  use  to  feed  the  central  flame. 
If  one  examines  the  records  of  great  artistic  careers, 
this  will,  I  think,  be  found  to  be  a  true  principle; 
and  it  is,  after  all,  inevitable  that  it  should  be  so, 
in  the  case  of  a  nature  which  has  the  absorbing  de- 
sire for  self-exj^ression.  Perhaps,  it  is  not  always 
consciously  recognised  by  the  artist,  but  the  fact 
is  there ;  he  tends  to  regard  the  deepest  and  highest 
experiences  of  life  as  ministering  to  the  fulness  of 
his  nature.  I  remember  hearing  a  great  master  of 
musical  art  discussing  the  music  of  a  j^oung  man  of 
extraordinary  promise;  he  said:  "Yes,  it  is  very 
beautiful,  very  pure;  he  is  perfect  in  technique  and 
expression,  as  far  as  it  goes;  but  it  is  incomplete 
and  undeveloped.  What  he  wants  is  to  fall  in  love." 
A  man  who  is  not  bound  by  the  noble  thraldom 
of  art,  who  is  full  of  vitality  and  emotion,  but  yet 
without  the  imperative  desire  for  self-expression, 
regards  life  in  a  different  mood.  He  may  be  fully 
as  eager  to  absorb  beautiful  impressions,  he  may 
love  the  face  of  the  earth,  the  glories  of  hill  and 
plain,  the  sweet  dreams  of  art,  the  lingering 
cadences  of  music;  but  he  takes  them  as  a  child 


The  Aktist  73 

takes  food,  with  a  direct  and  eager  appetite,  with- 
out any  impulse  to  dip  them  in  his  own  personaHty, 
or  to  find  an  expression  for  them.  The  point  for 
him  is  not  how  they  strike  him  and  affect  him,  but 
that  they  are  there.  Such  a  man  will  perhaps  find 
his  deepest  experience  in  the  mysteries  of  human 
relationship;  and  he  will  so  desire  the  happiness  of 
those  he  loves,  that  he  will  lose  himself  in  efforts 
to  remove  obstacles,  to  lighten  burdens,  to  give 
rather  than  to  receive  joy.  And  this,  I  think,  is 
probably  the  reason  why  so  few  w^omen,  even  those 
possessed  of  the  most  sensitive  perception  and  ap- 
prehension, achieve  the  highest  triumphs  of  art ;  be- 
cause they  cannot  so  subordinate  life  to  art,  because 
they  have  a  passionate  desire  for  the  happiness  of 
others,  and  find  their  deepest  satisfaction  in  help- 
ing to  further  it.  Who  does  not  know  instances  of 
women  of  high  possibilities,  who  have  quietly  sacri- 
ficed the  pursuit  of  their  own  accomplishments  to 
the  tendance  of  some  brilliant  self-absorbed  artist? 
V\^ith  such  love  is  often  mingled  a  tender  compas- 
sionateness,  as  of  a  mother  for  a  high-spirited  and 
eager  child,  who  throws  herself  with  perfect  sym- 
pathy into  his  aims  and  tastes,  while  all  the  time 
there  sits  a  gentle  knowledge  in  the  background  of 
her  heart,  of  the  essential  unimportance  of  the 
things  that  the  child  desires  so  eagerly,  and  which 
she  yet  desires  so  whole-heartedly  for  liim.     Women 


74  The  Thread  of  Gold 

who  have  made  such  a  sacrifice  do  it  with  no 
feeling  that  they  are  resigning  the  best  for  the  sec- 
ond best,  but  because  they  have  a  knowledge  of 
mysteries  that  are  even  higher  than  the  mysteries 
of  art;  and  they  have  their  reward,  not  in  the  con- 
templation of  the  sacrifice  that  they  have  made,  but 
in  having  desired  and  attained  something  that  is 
more  beautiful  still  than  any  dream  that  the  artist 
cherishes  and  follows. 

Yet  the  fact  remains  that  it  is  useless  to  preach 
to  the  artist  the  mystery  that  there  is  a  higher  region 
than  the  region  of  art.  A  man  must  aim  at  the  best 
that  he  can  conceive;  and  it  is  not  possible  to  give 
men  higher  motives  by  removing  the  lower  motives 
that  they  can  comj^rehend.  Such  an  attempt  is  like 
building  without  foundations;  and  those  who  have 
relations  with  artists  should  do  all  they  can  to  en- 
courage them  to  aim  at  what  they  feel  to  be  the 
highest. 

But  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  a  duty  for  the  artist  to 
keep  his  heart  open,  if  he  can,  to  the  higher  influen- 
ces. He  must  remember,  that  though  the  eye  can  see 
certain  colours,  and  the  ear  hear  certain  vibrations 
of  sound,  yet  there  is  an  infinite  scale  of  colour,  and 
an  infinite  gradation  of  sound,  both  above  and  be- 
low what  the  eye  and  the  ear  can  apprehend,  and 
that  mortal  apprehension  can  only  appropriate  to 
itself  but  a  tiny  fragment  of  the  huge  gamut.     He 


Young  Love  75 

ought  to  believe  that  if  he  is  faithful  to  the  best 
that  he  can  apj)rehend,  a  door  may  be  opened  to 
him  which  may  lead  him  into  regions  which  are  at 
present  closed  to  him.  To  accept  the  artistic  con- 
science, the  artistic  aim,  as  the  highest  ideal  of 
which  the  spirit  is  capable,  is  to  be  a  Pharisee  in  art, 
to  be  self-sufficient,  arrogant,  limited.  It  is  a  kind 
of  spiritual  pride,  a  wilful  deafness  to  more  remote 
voices;  and  it  is  thus  of  all  sins,  the  one  which  the 
artist,  who  lives  the  life  of  perception,  whose  mind 
must,  above  all  things,  be  open  and  transparent, 
should  be  loth  to  commit.  He  should  rather  keep 
his  inner  eye — for  the  artist  is  like  the  great  creat- 
ures that,  in  the  prophet's  vision,  stood  nearest  to 
the  presence,  who  were  full  of  ej^es,  ^\dthout  and 
within — open  to  the  unwonted  apparition  which 
may,  suddenly,  like  a  meteor  of  the  night,  sail  across 
the  silent  heaven.  It  may  be  that,  in  some  moment 
of  fuller  perception,  he  may  even  have  to  divorce 
the  sweeter  and  more  subtle  mistress  in  exchange 
for  one  who  comes  in  a  homelier  guise,  and  take  the 
beggar  girl  for  his  queen.  But  the  abnegation 
will  be  no  sacrifice ;  rather  a  richer  and  livelier  hope. 

XIV 

We  had  a  charming  idyll  here  to-da5^     A  j^oung 
husband  and  wife  came  to  stay  with  us  in  all  the 


76  The  Thread  of  Gold 

first  flush  of  married  happiness.  One  reahsed  all 
day  long  that  other  people  merely  made  a  pleasant 
background  for  their  love,  and  that  for  each  there 
was  but  one  real  figure  on  the  scene.  This  was 
borne  witness  to  by  a  whole  armoury  of  gentle 
looks,  swift  glances,  silent  gestures.  They  were 
both  full  to  the  brim  of  a  delicate  laughter,  of  over- 
brimming wonder,  of  tranquil  desire.  And  we  all 
took  part  in  their  gracious  happiness.  In  the  even- 
ing they  sang  and  played  to  us,  the  wife  being  an 
accomplished  pianist,  the  husband  a  fine  singer. 
But  though  the  glory  of  their  art  fell  in  rainbow 
showers  on  the  audience,  it  was  for  each  other  that 
they  sang  and  played.  We  sat  in  the  dim  fight  of 
a  little  panelled  room,  the  lamps  making  a  circle  of 
light  about  the  happy  pair;  seldom  have  I  felt  the 
revelation  of  personality  more.  The  wife  i^layed 
to  us  a  handful  of  beautiful  things;  but  I  noticed 
that  she  could  not  interpret  the  sadder  and  darker 
strains,  into  which  the  shadow  and  malady  of  a  suf- 
fering spirit  had  passed;  but  into  little  tripping 
minuets  full  of  laughter  and  light,  and  into  melo- 
dies that  spoke  of  a  pure  passion  of  sweetness  and 
human  delight,  her  soul  passed,  till  the  room  felt 
as  though  flooded  with  the  warmth  of  the  sun.  And 
he,  too,  sang  with  all  his  might  some  joyful  and 
brave  utterances,  with  the  lusty  pride  of  manhood; 
and  in  a  gentler  love-song  too,   that   seemed  to 


Young  Love  77 

linger  in  a  dream  of  delight  by  crystal  streams,  the 
sweet  passion  of  the  heart  rose  clear  and  true. 
But  when  he  too  essayed  a  song  of  sorrow  and  re- 
luctant sadness,  there  w^as  no  spirit  in  it;  it  seemed 
to  him,  I  suppose,  so  unlike  life,  and  the  joy  of 
life, — so  fantastic  and  unreal  an  outpouring  of  the 
heart. 

We  sat  long  in  the  panelled  room,  till  it  seemed 
all  alive  with  soft  dreams  and  radiant  shapes,  that 
floated  in  a  golden  air.  All  that  was  dark  and  dif- 
ficult seemed  cast  out  and  exorcised.  But  it  was  all 
so  sincere  and  contented  a  peace  that  the  darker 
and  more  sombre  shadows  had  no  jealous  awaken- 
ing; for  the  two  were  living  to  each  other,  not  in  a 
selfish  seclusion,  but  as  though  they  gave  of  their 
joy  in  handfuls  to  the  whole  world.  The  raptures 
of  lovers  sometimes  take  them  back  so  far  into  a 
kind  of  unashamed  childishness  that  the  spectacle 
rouses  the  contempt  and  even  the  indignation  of 
world-worn  and  cynical  people.  But  here  it  never 
deviated  from  dignity  and  seemliness;  it  only 
seemed  new  and  true,  and  the  best  gift  of  God. 
These  two  spirits  seemed,  with  hands  interwined, 
to  have  ascended  gladly  into  the  mountain,  and  to 
have  seen  a  transfiguration  of  life;  which  left  them 
not  in  a  blissful  eminence  of  isolation,  but  rather,  as 
it  were  beckoning  others  upwards,  and  saying  that 
the  road  was  indeed  easy  and  plain.     And  so  the 


78 


The  Thre.\d  of  Gold 


sweet  hour  passed,  and  left  a  fragrance  behind  it; 
whatever  might  befall,  they  had  tasted  of  the  holy 
wine  of  joy;  they  had  blessed  the  cup,  and  bidden 
us  too  to  set  our  lips  to  it. 


XV 


'J\ 


I  WAS  walking  one  summer  day  in  the  pleasant 
hilly  country  near  my  home.  There  is  a  road  which 
I  often  traverse,  partly  because  it  is  a  very  lonely 
one,  partly  because  it  leads  out  on  a  high  brow  or 
shoulder  of  the  uplands,  and  commands  a  wide  view 
of  the  plain.  Moreover,  the  road  is  so  deeply 
sunken  between  steep  banks,  overgrown  with  hazels, 
that  one  is  hardly  aware  how  much  one  climbs,  and 
the  wide  clear  view  at  the  top  always  breaks  upon 
the  eye  with  a  certain  shock  of  agreeable  surprise. 
A  little  before  the  top  of  the  hill  a  road  turns  off, 
leading  into  a  long  disused  quarry,  surrounded  by 
miniature  cliffs,  full  of  grassy  mounds  and  broken 
ground,  overgrown  with  thickets  and  floored  with 
rough  turf.  It  is  a  very  enchanting  place  in  spring, 
and  indeed  at  all  times  of  the  year;  many  flowers 
grow  there,  and  the  birds  sing  securely  among  the 
bushes.  I  have  always  imagined  that  the  Red 
Deeps  in  The  Mill  on  the  Floss  was  just  such  a 
place,  and  the  scenes  described  as  taking  place  there 


A  Strange  Gathering  79 

have  always  enacted  themselves  for  me  in  the 
quarry.  I  have  always  had  a  fancy  too  that  if  there 
are  any  fairies  hereabouts,  which  I  very  much 
doubt,  for  I  fear  that  the  new  villas  which  begin  to 
be  sprinkled  about  the  countryside  have  scared  them 
all  away,  they  would  be  found  here.  I  visited  the 
place  one  moonlight  night,  and  I  am  sure  that  the 
whole  dingle  was  full  of  a  bright  alert  life  which 
mocked  my  clumsy  eyes  and  ears.  If  I  could  have 
stolen  upon  the  place  unawares,  I  felt  that  I  might 
have  seen  strange  businesses  go  forward,  and  tiny 
revels  held. 

That  afternoon,  as  I  drew  near,  I  was  displeased 
to  see  that  my  little  retreat  was  being  profaned  by 
company.  Some  brakes  were  drawn  up  in  the  road, 
and  I  heard  loud  voices  raised  in  untuneful  mirth. 
As  I  came  nearer  I  was  much  bewildered  to  divine 
who  the  visitors  were.  They  seemed  on  the  point 
of  departing;  two  of  the  brakes  were  full,  and  into 
another  some  men  were  clambering.  As  I  came 
close  to  them  I  was  still  more  puzzled.  The  ma- 
jority of  the  party  were  dressed  all  alike,  in  rough 
brown  clothes,  with  soft  black  felt  hats ;  but  in  each 
of  the  brakes  that  were  tenanted  sat  a  man  as  well, 
with  a  braided  cap,  in  a  sort  of  uniform.  JNIost  of 
the  other  men  were  old  or  elderly;  some  had  white 
beards  or  whiskers,  almost  all  were  grizzled.  They 
were  talking,  too,  in  an  odd,  inconsequent,  chirping 


80  The  Thread  of  Gold 

kind  of  way,  not  listening  to  each  other ;  and  more- 
over they  were  strangely  adorned.  Some  had  their 
hats  stuck  full  of  flowers,  others  were  wreathed 
with  leaves.  A  few  had  chains  of  daisies  round  their 
necks.  They  seemed  as  merry  and  as  obedient  as 
children.  Inside  the  gate,  in  the  centre  of  the 
quarry,  w^as  a  still  stranger  scene.  Here  was  a 
ring  of  elderly  and  aged  men,  their  hats  wreathed 
with  garlands,  hand-in-hand,  executing  a  slow  and 
solemn  dance  in  a  circle.  One,  who  seemed  the 
moving  sj^irit,  a  small  wiry  man  with  a  fresh-col- 
oured face  and  a  long  chin-heard,  was  leaping  high 
in  the  air,  singing  some  rustic  song,  and  dragging 
his  less  active  companions  round  and  round.  The 
others  all  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  dance.  One 
very  old  and  feeble  man,  with  a  smile  on  his  face, 
was  executing  httle  clumsy  hops,  deeply  intent  on 
the  performance.  A  few  others  stood  round  ad- 
miring the  sport;  a  little  apart  was  a  tall  grave 
man,  talking  loudly  to  himself,  with  flowers  stuck 
all  over  him,  who  was  spinning  round  and  round  in 
an  ecstasy  of  dehght.  Becoming  giddy,  he  took 
a  few  rapid  steps  to  the  left,  but  fell  to  the  ground, 
w^here  he  lay  laughing  softly,  and  moving  his  hands 
in  the  air.  Presently  one  of  the  officials  said  a  word 
to  the  leader  of  the  dance;  the  ring  broke  up,  and 
the  performers  scattered,  gathering  up  little 
bundles  of  leaves  and  flowers  that  lay  all  about  in 


A  Strange  Gathering  81 

some  confusion,  and  then  trooping  out  to  the 
brakes.  The  quarry  was  deserted.  Several  of  the 
group  waved  their  hands  to  me,  uttering  unintelli- 
gible words,  and  holding  out  flowers. 

I  was  so  much  surprised  at  the  odd  scene  that 
I  asked  one  of  the  officials  what  it  all  meant.  He 
said  politely  that  it  was  a  picnic  party  from  the 

Pauper  Lunatic  Asylum  at  H .     The  mystery 

was  explained.  I  said:  "  They  seem  to  be  enjoy- 
ing themselves."  "  Yes,  indeed,  sir,"  he  said, 
"they  are  like  children;  they  look  forward  to  this 
all  the  year ;  there  is  no  greater  punishment  than  to 
deprive  a  man  of  liis  outing."  He  entered  the  last 
brake  as  he  said  these  words,  and  the  carriages 
moved  off,  a  shrill  and  aged  cheer  rising  from  thin 
and  piping  voices  on  the  air. 

The  whole  thing  did  not  strike  me  as  grotesque, 
but  as  infinitely  pathetic  and  even  beautiful.  Here 
were  these  old  pitiful  creatures,  so  deeply  afflicted, 
condemned  most  of  them  to  a  lifelong  seclusion, 
who  were  recalling  and  living  over  again  their  child- 
ish sports  and  delights.  What  dim  memories  of  old 
spring  days,  before  their  sad  disabilities  had  settled 
upon  them,  were  working  in  those  aged  and  feeble 
brains !  What  pleased  me  best  was  the  obvious  and 
light-hearted  happiness  of  the  whole  party,  a  com- 
pensation for  days  of  starved  monotonj^  No  party 
of  school-children  on  a  holiday  could  have  been 

6 


82  The  Thre^u)  of  Gold 

more  thoughtlessly,  more  intently  gay.  Here  was 
a  desolate  companj^  one  would  have  thought,  of 
life's  failui-es,  facing  one  of  the  saddest  and  least 
hopeful  prospects  that  the  world  can  afford;  yet 
on  this  day  at  least  they  were  full  to  the  brim  of 
irresponsible  and  complete  happiness  and  delight, 
tasting  an  enjoyment,  it  seemed,  more  vivid  than 
often  falls  to  my  own  lot.  In  the  presence  of  such 
happiness  it  seemed  so  useless,  so  unnecessary  to 
ask  why  so  heavy  a  burden  was  bound  on  their 
backs,  because  here  at  all  events  was  a  scene  of  the 
purest  and  most  innocent  rapture.  I  went  on  my 
way  full  of  wonder  and  even  of  hope.  I  could  not 
fathom  the  deep  mystery  of  the  failure,  the  suffer- 
ing, the  weakness  that  runs  across  the  world  like  an 
ugly  crack  across  the  face  of  a  fair  building.  But 
then  how  tenderly  and  wisely  does  the  great  Ai'ti- 
ficer  lend  consolation  and  healing,  repairing  and 
filling  so  far  as  he  may,  the  sad  fracture;  he  seems 
to  know  better  than  we  can  divine  the  things  that 
belong  to  our  peace;  so  that  as  I  looked  across  the 
purple  rolling  plain,  with  all  its  wooded  ridges,  its 
rich  pastures,  the  smoke  going  up  from  a  hundred 
hamlets,  a  confidence,  a  quiet  trust  seemed  to  rise 
in  my  mind,  filling  me  with  a  strange  j^earning  to 
know  what  were  the  thoughts  of  the  vast  JNIind  that 
makes  us  and  sustains  us,  mingled  with  a  faith  in 
some  large  and  far-off  issue  that  shall  receive  and 


The  Cripple  83 

enfold  our  little  fretful  spirits,  as  the  sea  receives 
the  troubled  leaping  streams,  to  move  in  slow  unison 
with  the  wide  and  secret  tides. 


XVI 

I  WENT  to-day  to  see  an  old  friend  whom  I  had 
not  met  for  ten  years.  Some  time  ago  he  had  a 
bad  fall  which  for  a  time  crippled  him,  but  from 
which  it  was  hoped  he  would  recover;  but  he  must 
have  received  some  obscure  and  deep-seated  injury, 
because,  after  improving  for  a  time,  he  began  to  go 
backwards,  and  has  now  to  a  great  extent  lost  the 
use  of  his  limbs.  He  was  formerly  a  very  active 
man,  both  intellectually  and  physically.  He  had 
a  prosperous  business  in  the  country  town  on  the 
outskirts  of  Avhich  he  li^  es.  He  was  one  of  those 
tall,  spare  men,  black-haired  and  black-eyed,  ca- 
pable of  bearing  great  fatigue,  full  to  the  brim  of 
vitality.  He  was  a  great  reader,  fond  of  music  and 
art;  married  to  a  no  less  cultivated  and  active  wife, 
but  childless.  There  never  was  a  man  who  had  a 
keener  enjoyment  of  existence  in  all  its  aspects. 
It  used  to  be  a  marvel  to  me  to  see  at  how  many 
points  a  man  could  touch  life,  and  the  almost  child- 
like zest  which  he  threw  into  everything  which  he 
did. 


84  The  Thread  of  Gold 

On  arriving  at  the  house,  a  pleasant  old-fash- 
ioned place  with  a  big  shady  garden,  I  was  shown 
into  a  large  book-lined  study,  and  there  presently 
crept  and  tottered  into  the  room,  leaning  on  two 
sticks,  a  figure  which  I  can  only  say  in  no  respect 
recalled  to  me  the  recollection  of  my  friend.  He 
was  bent  and  wasted,  his  hair  was  white;  and  there 
was  that  sunken  look  about  the  temples,  that  tra- 
cer}^ of  lines  about  the  eyes  that  tells  of  constant 
suffering.  But  the  voice  was  unaltered,  full,  reso- 
nant, and  distinct  as  ever.  He  sat  down  and  was 
silent  for  a  moment.  I  think  that  the  motion  even 
from  one  room  into  another  caused  him  great  pain. 
Then  he  began  to  talk ;  first  he  told  me  of  the  acci- 
dent, and  his  journeys  in  search  of  health.  "  But 
the  comfort  is,"  he  added,  "  that  the  doctors  have 
now  decided  that  they  can  do  no  more  for  me,  and 
I  need  leave  home  no  more."  He  told  me  that  he 
still  went  to  his  business  every  day — and  I  found 
that  it  was  prospering  greatl}^ — and  that  though  he 
could  not  drive,  he  could  get  out  in  a  wheeled  chair ; 
he  said  nothing  of  his  sufferings,  and  presently  be- 
gan to  talk  of  books  and  politics.  Gradually  I 
realised  that  I  was  in  the  company  of  a  thoroughly 
cheerful  man.  It  was  not  the  cheerfulness  that 
comes  of  effort,  of  a  determined  attempt  to  be  in- 
terested in  old  pursuits,  but  the  abundant  and  over- 
flowing cheerfulness  of  a  man  who  has  still  a  fii-m 


The  Cripple  85 

grasp  on  life.  He  argued,  he  discussed  with  the 
same  eager  liveliness ;  and  his  laugh  had  the  careless 
and  good-humoured  ring  of  a  man  whose  mind  was 
entirely  content. 

His  wife  soon  entered;  and  we  sat  for  a  long 
time  talking.  I  was  keenly  moved  by  the  relations 
between  them;  she  displayed  none  of  that  minute 
attention  to  his  needs,  none  of  that  watchful  anxiety 
which  I  have  often  thought,  tenderly  lavished  as 
it  is  upon  invalids,  must  bring  home  to  them  a  pain- 
ful sense  of  their  dependence  and  helplessness ;  and 
he  too  showed  no  trace  of  that  fretful  exigence 
which  is  too  often  the  characteristic  of  those  who 
cannot  assist  themselves,  and  which  almost  invari- 
ably arises  in  the  case  of  eager  and  active  tempera- 
ments thus  afflicted,  those  whose  minds  range 
quickly  from  subject  to  subject,  and  who  feel  their 
disabilities  at  every  turn.  At  one  moment  he 
wanted  his  glasses  to  read  something  from  a  book 
that  lay  beside  him.  He  asked  his  wife  with  a 
gentle  courtesy  to  find  them.  They  were  discov- 
ered in  his  own  breast-pocket,  into  which  he  could 
not  even  put  his  feeble  hand,  and  he  apologised  for 
his  stupidity  with  an  affectionate  humility  which 
made  me  feel  inclined  to  tears,  especially  when  I 
saw  the  pleasure  which  the  performance  of  this 
trifling  service  obviously  caused  her.  It  was  just 
the   same,    I    afterwards    noticed,    with    a   young 


86  The  Thread  of  Gold 

attendant  who  waited  on  him  at  luncheon,  an  oc- 
casion which  revealed  to  me  the  full  extent  of  his 
helplessness. 

I  gathered  from  his  wife  in  the  course  of  the  af- 
ternoon that  though  his  life  was  not  threatened, 
yet  that  there  was  no  doubt  that  his  helplessness 
was  increasing.  He  could  still  hold  a  book  and 
turn  the  pages ;  but  it  was  improbable  that  he  could 
do  so  for  long,  and  he  was  amusing  himself  by  in- 
venting a  mechanical  device  for  doing  this.  But 
she  too  talked  of  the  i:)rospect  with  a  quiet  tran- 
quillity. She  said  that  he  was  making  arrange- 
ments to  direct  his  business  from  his  house,  as  it 
was  becoming  difficult  for  him  to  enter  the  office. 

He  himself  showed  the  same  unabated  cheerful- 
ness during  the  whole  of  ni}^  visit,  and  spoke  of  the 
enjoyment  it  had  brought  him.  There  was  not  the 
slightest  touch  of  self-pity  about  his  talk. 

I  should  have  admired  and  wondered  at  the  forti- 
tude of  this  gallant  pair,  if  I  had  seen  signs  of  re- 
pression and  self-conquest  about  them;  if  they  had 
relapsed  even  momentarily  into  repining,  if  they 
had  shown  signs  of  a  faithful  determination  to 
make  the  best  of  a  bad  business.  But  I  could  dis- 
cern no  trace  of  such  a  mood  about  either  of  them. 
Whether  this  kindly  and  sweet  patience  has  been 
acquired,  after  hard  and  miserable  wrestlings  with 
despair  and  wretchedness,  I  cannot  say,  but  I  am  in- 


The  Cripple  87 

clined  to  think  that  it  is  not  so.  It  seems  to  me 
rather  to  be  the  display  of  perfect  manhness  and 
womanhness  in  the  presence  of  an  irreparable 
calamity,  a  wonderful  and  amazing  compensation, 
sent  quietly  from  the  deepest  fortress  of  Love  to 
these  simple  and  generous  natures,  who  live  in  each 
other's  lives.  I  tried  to  picture  to  myself  what  my 
own  thoughts  would  be  if  condemned  to  this  sad 
condition ;  I  could  only  foresee  a  fretful  irritability, 
a  wild  anguish,  alternating  with  a  torpid  stupefac- 
tion. "  I  seem  to  love  the  old  books  better  than 
ever,"  my  friend  had  said,  smiling  softly,  in  the 
course  of  the  afternoon;  "  I  used  to  read  them  hur- 
riedly and  generally  in  the  old  days  but  now  I 
have  time  to  think  over  them — to  reflect— I  never 
knew  what  a  pleasure  reflection  v/as."  I  could  not 
help  feeling  as  he  said  the  words  that  with  me  such  a 
stroke  as  he  has  suffered  would  have  dashed  the  life, 
the  colour,  out  of  books,  and  left  them  faded  and 
withered  husks.  Half  the  charm  of  books,  I  have 
always  thought,  is  the  interplay  of  the  commentary 
of  life  and  experience.  I  ventured  to  ask  him  if 
this  was  not  the  case.  "  No,"  he  said,  "  I  don't 
think  it  is — I  seem  more  interested  in  people,  in 
events,  in  thoughts  than  ever;  and  one  gets  them 
from  a  purer  spring — I  don't  know  if  I  can  ex- 
plain," he  added,  "  but  I  think  that  one  sees  it  all 
from  a  different  perspective,  in  a  truer  light,  when 


88  The  Thread  of  Gold 

one's  own  desires  and  possibilities  are  so  much  more 
limited."  When  I  said  good-bye  to  him,  he  smiled 
at  me  and  hoped  that  I  should  repeat  my  visit. 
"  Don't  think  of  me  as  unhappy,"  he  added,  and 
his  wife,  who  was  standing  by  him,  said,  "  Indeed 
you  need  not;  "  and  the  two  smiled  at  each  other  in 
a  way  which  made  me  feel  that  they  were  speaking 
the  simple  truth,  and  that  they  had  found  an  inter- 
pretation of  life,  a  serene  region  to  abide  in,  which 
I,  with  all  my  activities,  hopes,  fears,  businesses, 
had  somehow  missed.  The  pity  of  it!  and  yet  the 
beauty  of  it !  As  I  went  away  I  felt  that  I  had  in- 
deed trodden  on  holy  ground,  and  seen  the  trans- 
figuration of  humanity  and  pain  into  something 
august,  tranquil,  and  divine. 

XVII 

There  are  certain  things  in  the  world  that  are 
so  praiseworthy  that  it  seems  a  needless,  indeed  an 
almost  laughable  thing  to  praise  them;  such  things 
are  love  and  friendship,  food  and  sleep,  spring  and 
summer;  such  things,  too,  are  the  wisest  books,  the 
greatest  pictures,  the  noblest  cities.  But  for  all 
that  I  mean  to  try  and  make  a  little  hymn  in  prose 
in  honour  of  Oxford,  a  city  I  have  seen  but  seldom, 
and  which  yet  appears  to  me  one  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful things  in  the  world. 


OXFOED  89 

I  do  not  wish  to  single  out  particular  buildings, 
but  to  praise  the  whole  effect  of  the  place,  such  as 
it  seemed  to  me  on  a  day  of  bright  sun  and  cool 
air,  when  I  wandered  hour  after  hour  among  the 
streets,  bewildered  and  almost  intoxicated  with 
beauty,  feeling  as  a  poor  man  might  who  has 
pinched  all  his  life,  and  made  the  most  of  single 
coins,  and  who  is  brought  into  the  presence  of  a 
heap  of  piled-up  gold,  and  told  that  it  is  all  his  own. 

I  have  seen  it  said  in  foolish  books  that  it  is  a  mis- 
fortune to  Oxford  that  so  many  of  the  buildings 
have  been  built  out  of  so  perishable  a  vein  of  stone. 
It  is  indeed  a  misfortune  in  one  respect,  that  it 
tempts  men  of  dull  and  precise  minds  to  restore  and 
replace  buildings  of  incomparable  grace,  because 
their  outline  is  so  exquisitely  blurred  by  time  and 
decay.  I  remember  myself,  as  a  child,  visiting 
Oxford,  and  thinking  that  some  of  the  buildings 
were  almost  shamefully  ruinous  of  aspect ;  now  that 
I  am  wiser  I  know  that  we  have  in  these  battered 
and  fretted  palace-fronts  a  kind  of  beauty  that  fills 
the  mind  with  an  almost  despairing  sense  of  loveli- 
ness, till  the  heart  aches  with  gratitude,  and  thrills 
with  the  desire  to  proclaim  the  glory  of  the  sight 
aloud. 

These  black-fronted  blistered  fa9ades,  so  threat- 
ening, so  sombre,  yet  screening  so  bright  and  clear 
a  current  of  life;  with  the  tender  green  of  budding 


90 


The  Thread  of  Gold 


spring  trees,  chestnuts  full  of  silvery  spires,  glossy- 
leaved  creepers  clinging,  with  tiny  hands,  to  cornice 
and  parapet,  give  surely  the  sharpest  and  most  deli- 
cate sense  that  it  is  j)ossible  to  conceive  of  the  con- 
trast on  which  the  essence  of  so  much  beauty  de- 
pends. To  pass  through  one  of  these  dark  and 
smoke-stained  courts,  with  every  line  mellowed  and 
harmonised,  as  if  it  had  grown  up  so  out  of  the 
earth;  to  find  one's  self  in  a  sunnj''  pleasaunce,  car- 
peted with  velvet  turf,  and  set  thick  with  flowers, 
makes  the  spirit  sigh  with  delight.  Nowhere  in  the 
world  can  one  see  such  a  thing  as  those  great  gate- 
piers,  with  a  cognisance  a-top,  with  a  grille  of  iron- 
work between  them,  all  sweetly  entwined  with  some 
slim  vagrant  creeper,  that  gives  a  glimpse  and  a  hint 
— no  more — of  a  fairy-land  of  shelter  and  fountains 
within.  I  have  seen  such  palaces  stand  in  quiet  and 
stately  parks,  as  old,  as  majestic,  as  finely  pro- 
portioned as  the  buildings  of  Oxford;  but  the  very 
blackness  of  the  city  air,  and  the  drifting  smoke  of 
the  town,  gives  that  added  touch  of  grimness  and 
mystery  that  the  country  airs  cannot  communicate. 
And  even  fairer  sights  are  contained  within;  those 
panelled,  dark-roofed  halls,  with  their  array  of  por- 
traits gravely  and  intently  regarding  the  stranger; 
the  chapels,  with  their  splendid  classical  screens  and 
stalls,  rich  and  dim  with  ancient  glass.  The  towers, 
domes,  and  steeples ;  and  all  set  not  in  a  mere  para- 


Oxford  91 

dise  of  lawns  and  glades,  but  in  the  very  heart  of  a 
city,  itself  full  of  quaint  and  ancient  houses,  but 
busy  with  all  the  activity  of  a  brisk  and  prosperous 
town;  thereby  again  giving  the  strong  and  satisfy- 
ing sense  of  contrast,  the  sense  of  eager  and  every- 
day cares  and  pleasures,  side  by  side  with  these 
secluded  havens  of  peace,  the  courts  and  cloisters, 
wdiere  men  may  yet  live  a  life  of  gentle  thought  and 
quiet  contemplation,  untroubled,  nay,  even  stimu- 
lated, by  the  presence  of  a  bustling  life  so  near  at 
hand,  which  yet  may  not  intrude  upon  the  older 
dream. 

I  do  not  know  w^hether  my  taste  is  entirely  trust- 
worthy, but  I  confess  that  I  find  the  Italianate  and 
classical  buildings  of  Oxford  finer  than  the  Gothic 
buildings.  The  Gothic  buildings  are  quainter,  per- 
haps, more  picturesque,  but  there  is  an  air  of  solemn 
pomp  and  sober  dignity  about  the  classical  build- 
ings that  harmonises  better  with  the  sense  of  wealth 
and  grave  security  that  is  so  characteristic  of  the 
place.  The  Gothic  buildings  seem  a  survival,  and 
have  thus  a  more  romantic  interest,  a  more  poetical 
kind  of  association.  But  the  classical  porticoes 
and  fa9ades  seem  to  possess  a  nobler  dignity,  and  to 
provide  a  more  appropriate  setting  for  modern 
Oxford;  because  the  spirit  of  Oxford  is  more  the 
spirit  of  the  Renaissance  than  the  spirit  of  the 
Schoolmen;  and  personally  I  prefer  that  ecclesias- 


92  The  Thread  of  Gold 

ticism  should  be  more  of  a  flavour  than  a  temper;  I 
mean  that  though  I  rejoice  to  think  that  sober 
ecclesiastical  influences  contribute  a  serious  grace 
to  the  life  of  Oxford,  yet  I  am  glad  to  feel  that  the 
spirit  of  the  place  is  liberal  rather  than  ecclesiasti- 
cal. Such  traces  as  one  sees  in  the  chapels  of  the 
Oxford  Movement,  in  the  shape  of  paltry  stained 
glass,  starved  reredoses,  modern  Gothic  woodwork, 
would  be  purely  deplorable  from  the  artistic  point 
of  view,  if  they  did  not  possess  a  historical  interest. 
They  speak  of  interrupted  development,  an  at- 
tempt to  put  back  the  shadow  on  the  dial,  to  re- 
turn to  a  narrower  and  more  rigid  tone,  to  put  old 
wine  into  new  bottles,  which  betrays  a  want  of  con- 
fidence in  the  expansive  power  of  God,  I  hate 
with  a  deep-seated  hatred  all  such  attempts  to  bind 
and  confine  the  rising  tide  of  thought.  I  want  to 
see  religion  vital  and  not  formal,  elastic  and  not 
cramped  by  precedent  and  tradition.  And  thus 
I  love  to  see  w^orship  enshrined  in  noble  classical 
buildings,  which  seem  to  me  to  speak  of  a  desire  to 
infuse  the  intellectual  spirit  of  Greece,  the  digni- 
fied imperialism  of  Rome  into  the  more  timid  and 
secluded  ecclesiastical  life,  making  it  fuller,  larger, 
more  free,  more  deliberate. 

But  even  apart  from  the  buildings,  which  are 
after  all  but  the  body  of  the  place,  the  soul  of  Ox- 
ford, its  inner  spirit,  is  what  lends  it  its  satisfying 


Oxford  93 

charm.  On  the  one  hand,  it  gives  the  sense  of  the 
dignity  of  the  intellect ;  one  reflects  that  here  can  be 
lived  lives  of  stately  simplicity,  of  high  enthusiasm, 
apart  from  personal  wealth,  and  yet  surrounded  by 
enough  of  seemly  dignity  to  give  life  the  charm  of 
grave  order  and  quiet  solemnity.  Here  are  oppor- 
tunity for  peaceful  and  congenial  work,  to  the  sound 
of  melodious  bells,  uninterrupted  hours,  as  much 
society  of  a  simple  kind  as  a  man  can  desire,  and  the 
whole  with  a  background  of  exquisite  buildings  and 
rich  gardens.  And  then,  too,  there  is  the  tide  of 
youthful  life  that  floods  every  corner  of  the  place. 
It  is  an  endless  pleasure  to  see  the  troops  of  slim 
and  alert  young  figures,  full  of  enjoyment  and  life, 
with  all  the  best  gifts  of  life,  health,  work,  amuse- 
ment, society,  friendship,  lying  ready  to  their  hand. 
The  sense  of  this  beating  and  thrilling  pulse  of  life 
circulating  through  these  sombre  and  splendid 
buildings  is  what  gives  the  place  its  inner  glow ;  this 
life  full  of  hope,  of  sensation,  of  emotion,  not  yet 
shadowed,  or  disillusioned,  or  weary,  seems  to  be  as 
the  fire  on  the  altar,  throwing  up  its  sharp-darting 
tongues  of  flame,  its  clouds  of  fragrant  smoke, 
giving  warmth  and  significance  and  a  fiery  heart  to 
a  sombre  shrine. 

And  so  it  is  that  Oxford  is  in  a  sort  a  magnetic 
pole  for  England ;  a  pole  not,  perhaps,  of  intellect- 
ual energy,  or  strenuous  liberalism,  or  clamorous 


94  The  Thread  of  Gold 

aims,  or  political  ideas ;  few,  perhaps,  of  the  sturdy 
forces  that  make  England  great,  centre  there.  The 
greatness  of  England  is,  I  suppose,  made  up  by 
her  breezy,  loud-voiced  sailors,  her  lively,  plucky 
soldiers,  her  ardent,  undefeated  merchants,  her 
tranquil  administrators;  by  the  stubborn  adven- 
turous spirit  that  makes  itself  at  home  everywhere, 
and  finds  it  natural  to  assume  responsibilities. 
But  to  Oxford  set  the  currents  of  what  may  be 
called  intellectual  emotion,  the  ideals  that  may  not 
make  for  immediate  national  greatness,  but  which, 
if  delicately  and  faithfully  nurtured,  hold  out  at 
least  a  hope  of  affecting  the  intellectual  and  spirit- 
ual life  of  the  world.  There  is  something  about 
Oxford  which  is  not  in  the  least  typical  of  Eng- 
land, but  typical  of  the  larger  brotherhood  that  is 
independent  of  nationalities;  that  is  akin  to  the 
spirit  which  in  any  land  and  in  every  age  has  pro- 
duced imperishable  monuments  of  the  ardent  human 
soul.  The  tribe  of  Oxford  is  the  tribe  from  whose 
heart  sprang  the  Psalms  of  David;  Homer  and 
Sophocles,  Plato  and  Virgil,  Dante  and  Goethe  are 
all  of  the  same  divine  company.  It  may  be  said 
that  John  Bull,  the  sturdy  angel  of  England, 
turns  his  back  slightingly  upon  such  influences; 
that  he  regards  Oxford  as  an  incidental  ornament 
of  his  person,  like  a  seal  that  jingles  at  his  fob. 
But  all  generous  and  delicate  spirits  do  her  a  secret 


i: 


Authorship  95 

homage,  as  a  place  where  the  seeds  of  beauty  and 
emotion,  of  wisdom  and  understanding,  are  sown, 
as  in  a  secret  garden.  Hearts  such  as  these,  even 
whirhng  past  that  celestial  city,  among  her  poor 
suburbs,  feel  an  inexpressible  thrill  at  the  sight  of 
her  towers  and  domes,  her  walls  and  groves. 
Quam  dilecta  sunt  tabernacula,  they  will  say;  and 
they  will  breathe  a  reverent  prayer  that  there  may 
be  no  leading  into  captivity  and  no  complaining  in 
her  streets. 

XVIII 

I  FOUND  myself  at  dinner  the  other  day  next  to 
an  old  friend,  whom  I  see  but  seldom;  a  quiet, 
laborious,  able  man,  with  the  charm  of  perfect 
modesty  and  candour,  who,  moreover,  \^Tites  a  very 
beautiful  and  lucid  style.  I  said  to  him  that  I  con- 
ceived it  to  be  my  mission,  whenever  I  met  him,  to 
enquire  what  he  was  writing,  and  to  beg  him  to 
write  more.  He  said  smilingly  that  he  was  very 
much  occupied  in  his  work,  which  is  teaching,  and 
found  little  time  to  write;  "besides,"  he  said,  "I 
think  that  one  writes  too  much."  He  went  on  to 
say  that  though  he  loved  writing  well  enough  when 
he  was  in  the  mood  for  it,  yet  that  the  labour  of 
shaping  sentences,  and  lifting  them  to  their  places, 
was  very  severe. 


96  The  THREiU)  or  Gold 

I  felt  myself  a  little  rebuked  by  this,  for  I  will 
here  confess  that  writing  is  the  one  pleasure  and 
preoccupation  of  my  own  life,  though  I  do  not 
publish  a  half  of  what  I  write.  It  set  me  wonder- 
ing whether  I  did  indeed  write  too  much;  and  so  I 
said  to  him:  "  You  mean,  I  suppose,  that  one  gets 
into  the  habit  of  serving  up  the  same  ideas  over  and 
over  again,  with  a  different  sauce,  perhaps ;  but  still 
the  same  ideas?"  "Yes,"  he  said,  "that  is  what 
I  mean.  When  I  have  written  anything  that  I 
care  about,  I  feel  that  I  must  wait  a  long  time  be- 
fore the  cistern  fills  again." 

We  went  on  to  talk  of  other  things;  but  I  have 
since  been  reflecting  whether  there  is  truth  in  what 
my  friend  said.  If  this  view  is  true  of  writing, 
then  it  is  surely  the  only  art  that  is  so  hampered. 
We  should  never  think  that  an  artist  worked  too 
much;  we  might  feel  that  he  did  not  perhaps  finish 
his  big  pictures  sufficiently ;  but  if  he  did  not  spare 
labour  in  finishing  his  pictures,  we  should  never 
find  fault  with  him  for  doing,  say,  as  Turner  did, 
and  making  endless  studies  and  sketches,  day  after 
day,  of  all  that  struck  him  as  being  beautiful.  We 
should  feel  indeed  that  some  of  these  unconsidered 
and  rapid  sketches  had  a  charm  and  a  grace  that 
the  more  elaborate  pictures  might  miss ;  and  in  any 
case  we  should  feel  that  the  more  that  he  worked, 
the  firmer  and  easier  would  become  his  sweep  of 


Authorship  97 

hand,  the  more  deft  his  power  of  indicating  a  large 
effect  by  an  economy  of  resource.  The  musician, 
too:  no  one  would  think  of  finding  fault  with  him 
for  working  every  day  at  his  art;  and  it  is  the  same 
with  all  craftsmen ;  the  more  they  worked,  the  surer 
would  their  touch  be. 

Now  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  what  makes 
WTiting  good  is  not  so  much  the  pains  taken  with 
a  particular  piece  of  work,  the  retouching,  the  cor- 
rections, the  dear  delays.  Still  more  fruitful  than 
this  labour  is  the  labour  spent  on  work  that  is  never 
used,  that  never  sees  the  light.  Writing  is  to  me 
the  simplest  and  best  pleasure  in  the  world;  the 
mere  shaping  of  an  idea  in  words  is  the  occupation 
of  all  others  I  most  love;  indeed,  to  speak  frankty, 
I  plan  and  arrange  all  my  days  that  I  may  secure 
a  space  for  writing,  not  from  a  sense  of  duty,  but 
merely  from  a  sense  of  delight.  The  whole  world 
teems  with  subjects  and  thoughts,  sights  of  beauty 
and  images  of  joj'^  and  sorrow,  that  I  desire  to  put 
into  words;  and  to  forbid  myself  to  write  would  be 
to  exercise  the  strongest  self-denial  of  which  I  am 
capable.  Of  course  I  do  not  mean  that  I  can  al- 
ways please  myself:  I  have  piles  of  manuscripts 
laid  aside  which  fail  either  in  conception  or  expres- 
sion, or  in  both.  But  there  are  a  dozen  books  I 
would  like  to  write  if  I  had  the  time. 

To  be  honest,  I  do  not  believe  in  fretting  too 

7 


98  The  Thread  of  Gold 

much  over  a  piece  of  writing.  Writing,  labori- 
ously constructed,  painfully  ornamented,  is  often, 
I  think,  both  laborious  and  painful  to  read;  there 
is  a  sense  of  strain  about  it.  It  is  like  those  uneasy 
figures  that  one  sees  in  the  carved  gargoyles  of  old 
churches,  crushed  and  writhing  for  ever  under  a 
sense  of  weight  painfully  sustained,  or  holding  a 
gaping  mouth  open,  for  the  water-pipe  to  discharge 
its  contents  therethrough.  However  ingenious 
these  carvings  are,  they  always  give  a  sense  of  ten-  1 

sion  and  oppression  to  the  mind ;  and  it  is  the  same 
with  laboured  writers ;  my  theory  of  writing  rather 
is  that  the  conception  should  be  as  clear  as  possible, 
and  then  that  the  words  should  flow  like  a  trans- 
parent stream,  following  as  simply  as  possible  the 
shape  and  outline  of  the  thought  within,  like  a 
waterbreak  over  a  boulder  in  a  stream's  bed.  This, 
I  think,  is  best  attained  by  infinite  practice.  If  a 
piece  of  work  seems  to  be  heavy  and  muddy,  let  it 
be  thrown  aside  ungrudgingly;  but  the  attempt, 
even  though  it  be  a  failure,  makes  the  next  attempt 
easier. 

I  do  not  think  that  one  can  wi'ite  for  very  long 
at  a  time  to  much  purpose;  I  take  the  two  or  three 
hours  when  the  mind  is  clearest  and  freshest,  and 
write  as  rapidly  as  I  can;  this  secures,  it  seems  to 
me,  a  clearness  and  a  unity  which  cannot  be  at- 
tained by  fretful  labour,  by  poking  and  pinching  at 


Authorship  99* 

one's  work.  One  avoids  by  rapidity  and  ardour 
the  dangerous  defect  of  repetition ;  a  big  task  must 
be  divided  into  small  sharp  episodes  to  be  thus 
swiftly  treated.  The  thought  of  such  a  writer  as 
Flaubert  lying  on  his  couch  or  pacing  his  room,  the 
racked  and  tortured  medium  of  his  art,  spending 
hours  in  selecting  the  one  perfect  word  for  his  pur- 
pose, is  a  noble  and  inspiring  picture;  but  such  a 
process  does  not,  I  fear,  always  end  in  producing 
the  effect  at  Avhich  it  aims;  it  improves  the  texture 
at  a  minute  point;  it  sacrifices  width  and  freedom. 
Together  with  clearness  of  conception  and  re- 
source of  vocabulary  must  come  a  certain  eagerness 
of  mood.  When  all  three  qualities  are  present,  the 
result  is  good  work,  however  rapidly  it  may  be  pro- 
duced. If  one  of  the  three  is  lacking,  the  work 
sticks,  hangs,  and  grates ;  and  thus  what  I  feel  that 
the  word-artist  ought  to  do  is  to  aim  at  working 
on  these  lines,  but  to  be  very  strict  and  severe  about 
the  ultimate  selection  of  his  work.  If,  for  instance, 
in  a  big  task,  a  section  has  been  dully  and  im- 
potently  written,  let  him  put  the  manuscript  aside, 
and  think  no  more  of  it  for  a  while;  let  him  not 
spend  labour  in  attempting  to  mend  bad  work; 
then,  on  some  later  occasion,  let  him  again  get  his 
conception  clear,  and  write  the  whole  section  again ; 
if  he  loves  writing  for  itself  he  will  not  care  how 
often  this  process  is  repeated. 


100  The  Thread  of  Gold 

I  am  speaking  here  very  frankly ;  and  I  will  own 
that  for  myself,  when  the  day  has  rolled  past  and 
when  the  sacred  hour  comes,  I  sit  down  to  write 
with  an  appetite,  a  keen  rapture,  such  as  a  hungry 
man  may  feel  when  he  sits  down  to  a  savoury  meal. 
There  is  a  real  physical  emotion  that  accompanies  l 

the  process ;  and  it  is  a  deep  and  lively  distress  that 
I  feel  when  I  am  living  under  conditions  that  do  not 
allow  me  to  exercise  my  craft,  at  being  compelled 
to  waste  the  appropriate  hours  in  other  occupations. 

It  may  be  fairly  urged  that  with  this  intense 
impulse  to  write,  I  ought  to  have  contrived  to  make 
myself  into  a  better  writer ;  and  it  might  be  thought 
that  there  is  something  either  grotesque  or  pathetic 
in  so  much  emotional  enjoyment  issuing  in  so  slen- 
der a  performance.  But  the  essence  of  the  happi- 
ness is  that  the  joy  resides  in  the  doing  of  the  work 
and  not  in  the  giving  it  to  the  world ;  and  though  I 
do  not  pretend  not  to  be  fully  ahve  to  the  delight 
of  having  my  work  praised  and  appreciated,  that  is 
altogether  a  secondary  pleasure  which  in  no  way 
competes  with  the  luxury  of  expression. 

I  am  not  ungrateful  for  this  delight;  it  may, 
I  know,  be  withdrawn  from  me;  but  meanwhile 
the  world  seems  to  be  full  to  the  brim  of  expressive 
and  significant  things.  There  is  a  beautiful  old 
story  of  a  saint  who  saw  in  a  vision  a  shining  figure 
apjDroaching  him,  holding  in  his  hand  a  dark  and 


Hamlet  101 

cloudy  globe.  He  held  it  out,  and  the  saint  look- 
ing attentively  upon  it,  saw  that  it  appeared  to  rep- 
resent the  earth  in  miniature;  there  were  the 
continents  and  seas,  with  clouds  sweeping  over 
them;  and,  for  all  that  it  was  so  minute,  he  could 
see  cities  and  plains,  and  little  figures  moving  to 
and  fro.  The  angel  laid  his  finger  on  a  part  of  the 
globe,  and  detached  from  it  a  small  cluster  of 
islands,  drawing  them  out  of  the  sea ;  and  the  saint 
saw  that  they  were  peopled  by  a  folk,  whom  he 
knew,  in  some  way  that  he  could  not  wholly  under- 
stand, to  be  dreary  and  uncomforted.  He  heard  a 
voice  saying,  ''He  tciketli  up  the  isles  as  a  very  small 
thing;  "^  and  it  darted  into  his  mind  that  his  work 
lay  with  the  people  of  those  sad  islands ;  that  he  was 
to  go  thither,  and  speak  to  them  a  message  of  hope. 
It  is  a  beautiful  storj^;  and  it  has  alwaj^s  seemed 
to  me  that  the  work  of  the  artist  is  like  that.  He 
is  to  detach  from  the  great  peopled  globe  what  little 
portion  seems  to  appeal  to  him  most;  and  he  must 
then  say  what  he  can  to  encourage  and  sustain  men, 
whatever  thoughts  of  joy  and  hope  come  most  home 
to  him  in  his  long  and  eager  pilgrimage. 

XIX 

We  were  talking  yesterday  about  the  stage,  a 
subject  in  which  I  am  ashamed  to  confess  I  take 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


102  The  Thre.vd  of  Gold 

but  a  feeble  interest,  though  I  fully  recognise  the 
appeal  of  the  drama  to  certain  minds,  and  its  pos- 
sibilities. One  of  the  party,  who  had  all  his  life 
been  a  great  frequenter  of  theatres,  turned  to  me 
and  said:  "After  all,  there  is  one  play  which  seems 
to  be  always  popular,  and  to  affect  all  audiences, 
the  poor,  the  middle-class,  the  cultivated,  alike — 
Hamlet."  "  Yes,"  I  said,  "  and  I  wonder  why  that 
is?  "  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  it  is  this,  I  think:  that  be- 
neath all  its  subtleties,  all  its  intellectual  force,  it 
has  an  emotional  appeal  to  every  one  who  has  lived 
in  the  world;  every  one  sees  himself  more  or  less  in 
Hamlet ;  every  one  has  been  in  a  situation  in  which 
he  felt  that  circumstances  were  too  strong  for  him; 
and  then,  too,"  he  added,  "  there  is  always  a  deep 
and  romantic  interest  about  the  case  of  a  man  who 
has  every  possible  external  advantage,  youth, 
health,  wealth,  rank,  love,  ardour,  and  zest,  who  is 
j^et  utterly  miserable,  and  moves  to  a  dark  end  un- 
der a  shadow  of  doom." 

I  thought,  and  think,  this  a  profound  and  deli- 
cate criticism.  There  is,  of  course,  a  great  deal 
more  in  Hcunlet;  there  is  its  high  poetry,  its  mourn- 
ful dwelling  upon  deep  mysteries,  its  supernatural 
terrors,  its  worldly  wisdom,  its  penetrating  insight; 
but  these  are  all  accessories  to  the  central  thought; 
the  conception  is  absolutely  firm  throughout.  The 
hunted  soul  of  Hamlet,  after  a  pleasant  and  easy 


Hamlet  103 

drifting  upon  the  stream  of  happy  events,  finds  a 
sombre  cm-tain  suddenly  twitched  aside,  and  is 
confronted  with  a  tragedy  so  dark,  a  choice  so  des- 
perate, that  the  reehng  brain  staggers,  and  can 
hardly  keep  its  hold  upon  the  events  and  habits  of 
hfe.  Day  by  day  the  shadow  flits  beside  him; 
morning  after  morning  he  uncloses  his  sad  eyes 
upon  a  world,  which  he  had  found  so  sweet,  and 
w^hich  he  now  sees  to  be  so  terrible ;  the  insistent  hor- 
ror breeds  a  whole  troop  of  spectres,  so  that  all  the 
quiet  experiences  of  life,  friendship,  love,  nature, 
art,  become  big  with  uneasj^  speculations  and  sur- 
mises; from  the  rampart-platform  by  the  sea  until 
the  peal  of  ordnance  is  shot  off,  as  the  poor  bodies 
are  carried  out,  every  moment  brings  ^nth  it  some 
shocking  or  brooding  experience.  Hamlet  is  not 
strong  enough  to  close  his  eyes  to  these  things;  if 
for  a  moment  he  attempts  this,  some  tragic  thought 
plucks  at  his  shoulder,  and  bids  the  awakened 
sleeper  look  out  into  the  struggling  light.  Neither 
is  he  strong  enough  to  face  the  situation  with  reso- 
lution and  courage.  He  turns  and  doubles  before 
the  pursuing  Fury;  he  hopes  against  hope  that  a 
door  of  escape  may  be  opened.  He  poisons  the  air 
with  gloom  and  suspicion ;  he  feeds  with  wilful  sad- 
ness upon  the  most  melancholy  images  of  death  and 
despair.  And  though  the  great  creator  of  this 
mournful   labyrinth,   this   atrocious   dilemma,    can 


104  The  Thread  of  Gold 

involve  the  sad  spirit  with  an  art  that  thrills  all  the 
most  delicate  fibres  of  the  human  spirit,  he  cannot 
stammer  out  even  the  most  faltering  solution,  the 
smallest  word  of  comfort  or  hope.  He  leaves  the 
problem,  where  he  took  it  up,  in  the  mighty  hands 
of  God. 

And  thus  the  play  stands  as  the  supreme  memo- 
rial of  the  tortured  spirit.  The  sad  soul  of  the 
prince  seems  like  an  orange-banded  bee,  buzzing 
against  the  glass  of  some  closed  chamber-mndow, 
wondering  heavily  what  is  the  clear  yet  palpable 
medium  that  keeps  it,  in  spite  of  all  its  efforts,  from  ♦ 

re-entering  the  sunny  paradise  of  tree  and  flower,  I 

that  lies  so  close  at  hand,  and  that  is  yet  unattain-  • 

able;  until  one  wonders  why  the  supreme  Lord  of  j* 

the  place  cannot  put  forth  a  finger,  and  release  the 
ineffectual  spirit  from  its  fruitless  j)ain.  As  the 
play  gathers  and  thickens  to  its  crisis,  one  experi- 
ences— and  this  is  surely  a  test  of  the  highest  art — 
the  poignant  desire  to  explain,  to  reason,  to  com- 
fort, to  relieve;  even  if  one  cannot  help,  one  longs 
at  least  to  utter  the  yearning  of  the  heart,  the  in- 
tense sympathy  that  one  feels  for  the  multitude  of 
sorrows  that  oppress  this  laden  spirit ;  to  assuage  if 
only  for  a  moment,  by  an  answering  glance  of  love, 
the  fire  that  burns  in  those  stricken  eyes.  And  one 
must  bear  away  from  the  stor}?-  not  only  the  intel- 
lectual satisfaction,  the  emotional  excitement,  but 


A  Sealed  Spirit  105 

a  deep  desire  to  help,  as  far  as  a  man  can,  the  woes 
of  spirits  who,  all  the  world  over,  are  in  the  grip  of 
these  dreary  agonies. 

And  that,  after  all,  is  the  secret  of  the  art  that 
deals  with  the  presentment  of  sorrow;  with  the  art 
that  deals  with  pure  beaut}^  the  end  is  plain  enough ; 
we  may  stay  our  hearts  upon  it,  plunge  with  grati- 
tude into  the  pure  stream,  and  recognise  it  for  a 
sweet  and  wholesome  gift  of  God;  but  the  art  that 
makes  sorrow  beautiful,  what  are  we  to  do  with 
that  ?  We  may  learn  to  bear,  we  may  learn  to  hope 
that  there  is,  in  the  mind  of  God,  if  we  could  but 
read  it,  a  region  where  both  beauty  and  sadness  are 
one ;  and  meanwhile  it  may  teach  us  to  let  our  heart 
go  out,  in  love  and  pity,  to  all  who  are  bound  upon 
their  pilgrimage  in  heaviness,  and  passing  uncom- 
f orted  through  the  dark  valley. 

XX 

I 

A  FEW  weeks  ago  I  was  staying  with  a  friend  of 
mine,  a  clergj^man  in  the  country.  He  told  me  one 
evening  a  very  sad  story  about  one  of  his  parishion- 
ers. This  was  a  man  who  had  been  a  clerk  in  a 
London  Bank,  whose  eyesight  had  failed,  and  who 
had  at  last  become  totally  blind.  He  was,  at  the 
time  when  this  calamitj^  fell  upon  him,  about  forty 


106  The  Thread  of  Gold 

years  of  age.  The  Directors  of  the  Bank  gave  him 
a  small  pension,  and  he  had  a  very  small  income  of 
his  own;  he  was  married,  with  one  son,  who  was 
shortly  after  taken  into  the  Bank  as  a  clerk.  The 
man  and  his  wife  came  into  the  parish,  and  took  a 
tiny  cottage,  where  they  lived  very  simply  and 
frugally.  But  within  a  year  or  two  his  hearing  had 
also  failed,  and  he  had  since  become  totally  deaf. 
It  is  almost  appalling  to  reflect  upon  the  condition 
of  helplessness  to  which  this  double  calamity  can 
reduce  a  man.  To  be  cut  off  from  the  sights  and 
sounds  of  the  world,  with  these  two  avenues  of  per- 
ception closed,  so  as  to  be  able  to  take  cognisance  of 
external  things  only  through  scent  and  touch!  It 
would  seem  to  be  well-nigh  unendurable!  He  had 
learned  to  read  raised  type  with  his  fingers,  and  had 
been  presented  by  some  friends  with  two  or  three 
books  of  this  kind.  Ilis  speech  was,  as  is  always 
the  case,  affected,  but  still  intelligible.  Only  the 
simplest  facts  could  be  communicated  to  him,  by 
means  of  a  set  of  cards,  with  words  in  raised  type, 
out  of  which  a  few  sentences  could  be  arranged. 
But  he  and  his  wife  had  invented  a  code  of  touch, 
by  means  of  which  she  was  able  to  a  certain  extent, 
though  of  course  very  inadequately,  to  communi- 
cate with  him.  I  asked  how  he  employed  himself, 
and  I  was  told  that  he  wrote  a  good  deal, — curious, 
rhapsodical  compositions,  dwelling  much  on  his  own 


A  Sealed  Spirit  107 

thoughts  and  fancies.  "  He  sits,"  said  the  Vicar, 
"  for  hours  together  on  a  bench  in  his  garden,  and 
walks  about,  guided  by  his  wife.  His  sense  of  both 
smell  and  touch  have  become  extraordinarily  acute ; 
and,  afflicted  as  he  is,  I  am  sure  he  is  not  at  all  an 
unhappy  man."  He  produced  some  of  the  writ- 
ings of  which  he  had  spoken.  They  were  written 
in  a  big,  clear  hand.  I  read  them  with  intense  in- 
terest. Some  of  them  were  recollections  of  his 
childish  days,  set  in  a  somewhat  antique  and  biblical 
phraseology.  Some  of  them  were  curious  reveries, 
dwelling  much  upon  the  perception  of  natural 
things  through  scent.  He  comj)lained,  I  remem- 
ber, that  life  was  so  much  less  interesting  in  winter 
because  scents  were  so  much  less  sweet  and  less 
complex  than  in  summer.  But  the  whole  of  the 
writings  showed  a  serene  exaltation  of  mind.  There 
was  not  a  touch  of  repining  or  resignation  about 
them.  He  spoke  much  of  the  aesthetic  pleasure 
that  he  received  from  an  increased  power  of  disen- 
tangling the  component  elements  of  a  scent,  such 
as  came  from  his  garden  on  a  warm  summer  day. 
Some  of  the  wi'itings  that  were  shown  me  were  re- 
ligious in  character,  in  which  the  man  spoke  of  a 
constant  sense  of  the  nearness  of  God's  presence, 
and  of  a  strange  joy  that  filled  his  heart. 

On  the  following  day  the  Vicar  suggested  that 
we  should  go  to  see  him;  we  turned  out  of  a  lane, 


108  The  Thread  of  Gold 

and  found  a  little  cottage  with  a  thatched  roof, 
standing  in  a  small  orchard,  bright  with  flowers. 
On  a  bench  we  saw  the  man  sitting,  entirely  uncon- 
scious of  our  presence.  He  was  a  tall,  strongly- 
built  fellow  with  a  beard,  bronzed  and  healthy  in 
appearance.  His  eyes  were  wide  open,  and,  but 
for  a  curious  fixity  of  gaze,  I  should  not  have  sus- 
pected that  he  was  blind.  His  hands  were  folded 
on  his  knee,  and  he  was  smiling ;  once  or  twice  I  saw 
his  lips  move  as  if  he  was  talking  to  himself.  "  We 
won't  go  up  to  him,"  said  the  Vicar,  "  as  it  might 
startle  him;  we  will  find  his  wife."  So  we  went  up 
to  the  cottage  door,  and  knocked.  It  was  opened  to 
us  by  a  small  elderly  woman,  with  a  grave,  simple 
look,  and  a  very  pleasant  smile.  The  little  place 
w^as  wonderfully  clean  and  neat.  The  Vicar  in- 
troduced me,  saying  that  I  had  been  much  inter- 
ested in  her  husband's  writings,  and  had  come  to 
call  on  him.  She  smiled  briskly,  and  said  that  he 
w^ould  be  much  pleased.  We  walked  down  the 
path;  when  we  were  within  a  few  feet  of  him,  he 
became  aware  of  our  presence,  and  turned  his  head 
with  a  quiet,  expectant  air.  His  wife  went  up  to 
him,  took  his  hand,  and  seemed  to  beat  on  it  softly 
with  her  fingers ;  he  smiled,  and  presently  raised  his 
hat,  as  if  to  greet  us,  and  then  took  up  a  little  writ- 
ing-pad which  lay  beside  him,  and  began  to  write. 
A  little  conversation  followed,  his  wife  reading  out 


A  Sealed  Spirit  109 

what  he  had  written,  and  then  interpreting  our  re- 
marks to  him.  What  struck  me  most  was  the  ab- 
sence of  egotism  in  what  he  wrote.  He  asked  the 
Vicar  one  or  two  questions,  and  desired  to  know 
who  I  was.  I  went  and  sat  down  beside  him;  he 
A\Tote  in  his  book  that  it  was  a  pleasure  to  him  to 
meet  a  stranger.  Might  he  take  the  hberty  of  see- 
ing him  in  his  own  waj"?  "  He  means,"  said  the 
wife,  smiHng,  "  might  he  put  his  hand  on  j^our  face 
— some  people  do  not  like  it,"  she  added  apolo- 
getically, "  and  he  will  quite  understand  if  you  do 
not."  I  said  that  I  was  delighted;  and  the  blind 
man  thereupon  laid  his  hand  upon  my  sleeve,  and 
with  an  incredible  deftness  and  lightness  of  touch, 
so  that  I  hardly  felt  it,  passed  his  finger-tips  over 
my  coat  and  waistcoat,  lingered  for  a  moment  over 
my  watch-chain,  then  over  my  tie  and  collar,  and 
then  very  gently  over  my  face  and  hair;  it  did  not 
last  half  a  minute,  and  there  was  something  curi- 
ously magnetic  in  the  touch  of  the  slim,  firm  fingers. 
"  Now  I  see  him,"  he  wrote;  "  please  thank  him." 
"  It  will  please  him,"  said  the  Vicar,  "  if  we  ask  him 
to  describe  you."  In  a  moment,  after  a  few  touches 
of  his  wife's  hand,  he  smiled,  and  wrote  down  a 
really  remarkably  accurate  picture  of  my  appear- 
ance. We  then  asked  him  a  few  questions  about 
himself.  "  Very  well  and  very  happy,"  he  wrote, 
"  full  of  the  love  of  God  ";  and  then  added,  "  You 


I 


110  The  Thread  of  Gold 

will  perhaps  think  that  I  get  tired  of  doing  no- 
thing, but  the  time  is  too  short  for  all  I  want  to  do." 
"  It  is  quite  true,"  said  his  wife,  smiling  as  she  read 
it.  "  He  is  as  pleased  as  a  child  with  everything, 
and  every  one  is  so  good  to  him."  Presently  she 
asked  him  to  read  aloud  to  us;  and  in  a  voice  of 
great  distinctness,  he  read  a  few  verses  of  the  Book 
of  Job  from  a  big  volume.  The  voice  was  high  and 
resonant,  but  varied  strangely  in  pitch.  He  asked 
at  the  end  whether  we  had  heard  every  word,  and 
being  told  that  we  had,  smiled  very  sweetly  and 
frankly,  like  a  boy  who  has  performed  a  task  well. 
The  Vicar  suggested  that  he  should  come  for  a  turn 
with  us,  at  which  he  visibly  brightened,  and  said  he 
would  like  to  walk  through  the  village.  He  took 
our  arms,  walking  between  us;  and  with  a  delicate 
courtesy,  knowing  that  we  could  not  communicate 
with  him,  talked  himself,  very  quietly  and  simply, 
almost  all  the  way,  partly  of  what  he  was  con- 
vinced we  were  passing, — guessing,  I  imagine, 
mainly  by  a  sense  of  smell,  and  interpreting  it  all 
with  astonishing  accuracy,  though  I  confess  I  was 
often  unable  even  to  detect  the  scents  which  guided 
him.  We  walked  thus  for  half  an  hour,  listening 
to  his  quiet  talk.  Two  or  three  people  came  up  to 
us.  Each  time  the  Vicar  checked  him,  and  he  held 
out  his  hand  to  be  shaken;  in  each  case  he  recog- 
nised the  person  by  the  mere  touch  of  the  hand. 


A  SEAI.ED  Spirit  111 

"  Mrs.  Purvis,  is  n't  it  ?  Well,  you  see  me  in  very 
good  company  this  morning,  don't  you?  It  is  so 
kind  of  the  Vicar  and  his  friend  to  take  me  out,  and 
it  is  pleasant  to  meet  friends  in  the  village."  He 
seemed  to  know  all  about  the  affairs  of  the  place, 
and  made  enquiries  after  various  people. 

It  was  a  very  strange  experience  to  walk  thus 
with  a  fellow-creature  suffering  from  these  sad 
limitations,  and  yet  to  be  conscious  of  being  in  the 
presence  of  so  perfectly  contented  and  cheerful  a 
spirit.  Before  we  parted,  he  wrote  on  his  pad  that 
he  was  working  hard.  "  I  am  trying  to  write  a  lit- 
tle book;  of  course  I  know  that  I  can  never  see  it, 
but  I  should  like  to  tell  people  that  it  is  possible  to 
live  a  life  like  mine,  and  to  be  full  of  happiness; 
that  God  sends  me  abundance  of  joj^  so  that  I  can 
say  with  truth  that  I  am  happier  now  than  ever  I 
was  in  the  old  days.  Such  peace  and  joy,  with  so 
many  to  love  me;  so  little  that  I  can  do  for  others, 
except  to  speak  of  the  marvellous  goodness  of  God, 
and  of  the  beautiful  thoughts  he  gives  me."  "  Yes, 
he  has  written  some  chapters,"  said  the  faithful 
wife;  "but  he  does  not  want  any  one  to  see  them 
till  they  are  done." 

I  shall  never  forget  the  sight  of  the  two  as  we 
went  away:  he  stood,  smiling  and  waving  his  hand, 
under  an  apple-tree  in  full  bloom,  with  the  sun  shin- 
ing on  the  flowers.     It  gave  me  the  sense  of  a  pure 


112  The  Thread  of  Gold 

and  simple  content  such  as  I  have  rarely  experi- 
enced. The  beauty  and  strength  of  the  picture 
have  dwelt  with  me  ever  since,  showing  me  that  a 
soul  can  be  thus  shut  up  in  what  would  seem  to  be 
so  dark  a  prison,  with  the  windows,  through  which 
most  of  us  look  upon  the  world,  closed  and  shut- 
tered; and  yet  not  only  not  losing  the  joy  of  life, 
but  seemxing  to  taste  it  in  fullest  measure.  If  one 
could  but  accept  thus  one's  own  limitations,  view- 
ing them  not  as  sources  of  pleasure  closed,  but  as 
opening  the  door  more  wide  to  what  remains;  the 
very  simplicity  and  rarity  of  the  perceptions  that 
are  left,  gaining  in  depth  and  quality  from  their 
isolation.  But  bej^ond  all  this  lies  that  w^ell-spring 
of  inner  joy,  which  seems  to  be  withheld  from  so 
many  of  us.  Is  it  indeed  withheld  ?  Is  it  conferred 
upon  this  poor  soul  simply  as  a  tender  compensa- 
tion? Can  we  not  by  quiet  passivitj^  rather  than 
by  resolute  effort,  learn  the  secret  of  it.  I  believe 
myself  that  the  source  is  there  in  many  hearts,  but 
that  we  visit  it  too  rarely,  and  forget  it  in  the  multi- 
tude of  little  cares  and  businesses,  which  seem  so 
important,  so  absorbing.  It  is  like  a  hidden  treas- 
ure, which  we  go  so  far  abroad  to  seek,  and  for 
Avhich  we  endure  much  weariness  of  wandering; 
while  all  the  while  it  is  buried  in  our  own  garden- 
ground;  w^e  have  paced  to  and  fro  above  it  many 
times,  never  dreaming  that  the  bright  thing  lay  be- 


Leisure  113 

neath  our  feet,  and  within  reach  of  our  forgetful 
hand. 


XXI 

It  was  a  bright  day  in  early  spring;  large  fleecy 
clouds  floated  in  a  blue  sky;  the  wind  was  cool,  but 
the  sun  lay  hot  in  sheltered  places. 

I  was  spending  a  few  days  with  an  old  friend,  at 
a  little  house  he  calls  his  Hermitage,  in  a  Western 
valley;  we  had  walked  out,  had  passed  the  bridge, 
and  had  stood  awhile  to  see  the  clear  stream  flowing, 
a  vein  of  reflected  sapphire,  among  the  green  wa- 
ter-meadows; we  had  climbed  up  among  the  beech- 
woods,  through  copses  full  of  primroses,  to  a  large 
heathery  hill,  where  a  clump  of  old  pines  stood  in- 
side an  ancient  earth-work.  The  forest  lay  at  our 
feet,  and  the  doves  cooed  lazily  among  the  tree-tops ; 
beyond  lay  the  plain,  with  a  long  range  of  smooth 
downs  behind,  where  the  river  broadened  to  the  sea- 
pool,  which  narrowed  again  to  the  little  harbour; 
and,  across  the  clustered  house-roofs  and  the  lonely 
church  tower  of  the  port,  we  could  see  a  glint  of  the 
sea. 

We  sat  awhile  in  silence;  then  "  Come,"  I  said, 
"  I  am  going  to  be  impertinent !  I  am  in  a  mood 
to  ask  questions,  and  to  have  full  answers." 


114  The  Thread  of  Gold 

"And  I,"  said  my  host  placidly,  "  am  always  in 
the  mood  to  answer  questions." 

I  would  call  my  friend  a  poet,  because  he  is 
sealed  of  the  tribe,  if  ever  man  was;  yet  he  has 
never  written  verses  to  my  knowledge.  He  is  a 
big,  burly,  quiet  man,  gentle  and  meditative  of  as- 
j)ect;  shy  before  company,  voluble  in  private. 
Half -humorous,  half  melancholy.  He  has  been  a 
man  of  affairs,  prosx)erous,  too,  and  shi-ewd.  But 
nothing  in  his  life  was  ever  so  poetical  as  the  way 
in  which,  to  the  surprise  and  even  consternation  of 
all  his  friends,  he  announced  one  day,  when  he  was 
turned  of  forty,  that  he  had  had  enough  of  work, 
and  that  he  would  do  no  more.  Well,  he  had  no 
one  to  say  him  nay;  he  has  but  few  relations,  none 
in  any  way  dependent  on  him ;  he  has  a  modest  com- 
petence; and,  being  fond  of  all  leisurely  things — 
books,  music,  the  open  air,  the  country,  flowers,  and 
the  like — he  has  no  need  to  fear  that  his  time  will  be 
unoccupied. 

He  looked  lazily  at  me,  biting  a  straw.  "  Come," 
said  I  again,  "  here  is  the  time  for  a  catechism.  I 
have  reason  to  think  you  are  over  forty? " 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "the  more 's  the  pity!" 

"And  you  have  given  up  regular  work,"  I  said, 
"  for  over  a  year;  and  how  do  you  like  that?  " 

"  Like  it?  "  he  said.  "  Well,  so  much  that  I  can 
never  work  again;  and  what  is  stranger  still  is  that 


Leisure  115 

I  never  knew  what  it  was  to  be  really  busy  till  I 
gave  up  work.  Before,  I  was  often  bored;  now, 
the  day  is  never  long  enough  for  all  I  have  to  do." 

"  But  that  is  a  dreadful  confession,"  I  said;  "  and 
how  do  j^ou  justify  yourself  for  this  miserable  in- 
difference to  all  that  is  held  to  be  of  importance? " 

"Listen!"  he  said,  smiling  and  holdhig  up  his 
hand.  There  floated  up  out  of  the  wood  the  soft 
crooning  of  a  dove,  like  the  over-brimming  of  a 
tide  of  content.  "  There  's  the  answer,"  he  added. 
"How  does  that  dove  justify  his  existence?  and 
yet  he  has  not  much  on  his  mind." 

"  I  have  no  answer  ready,"  I  said,  "  though  there 
is  one,  I  am  sure,  if  you  will  only  give  me  time; 
but  let  that  come  later:  more  questions  first,  and 
then  I  will  deliver  judgment.  Now,  attend  to  this 
seriously,"  I  said.  "  How  do  you  justify  it  that 
you  are  alone  in  the  world,  not  mated,  not  a  good 
husband  and  father?  The  dove  has  not  got  that  on 
his  conscience." 

"Ah!  "  said  my  friend.  "  I  have  often  asked  my- 
self that.  But  for  many  years  I  had  not  the  time 
to  fall  in  love;  if  I  had  been  an  idle  man  it  would 
have  been  different,  and  now  that  I  am  free — well, 
I  regard  it  as,  on  the  whole,  a  wise  dispensation. 
I  have  no  domestic  virtues ;  I  am  a  pretty  common- 
place person,  and  I  think  there  is  no  reason  why  I 
should  j)erpetuate  my  own  feeble  qualities,  bind 


116  The  Thread  of  Gold 

my  dull  qualities  up  closer  with  the  life  of  the  world. 
Besides,  I  have  a  theory  that  the  world  is  made  now 
very  much  as  it  was  in  the  Middle  Ages.  There 
was  but  one  choice  then — a  soldier  or  a  monk. 
Now,  I  have  no  combative  blood  in  me;  I  hate  a 
row ;  I  am  a  monk  to  the  marrow  of  mv  bones,  and 
the  monks  are  the  failures  from  the  point  of  view 
of  race.  No  monk  should  breed  monks;  there  are 
enough  of  his  kind  in  the  hive  already." 

"  You  a  monk?  "  said  I,  laughing.  "  Why,  you 
are  nothing  of  the  kind ;  you  are  just  the  sort  of  man 
for  an  adoring  wife  and  a  handful  of  big  children. 
I  must  have  a  better  answer." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  he,  rather  seriously,  "  I  will 
give  you  a  better  answer.  There  are  some  people 
whose  affections  are  made  to  run,  strong  and 
straight,  in  a  narrow  channel.  The  world  holds 
but  one  woman  for  a  man  of  that  type,  and  it  is  his 
business  to  find  her ;  but  there  are  others,  and  I  am 
one,  who  dribble  away  their  love  in  a  hundred  chan- 
nels— in  art,  in  nature,  among  friends.  To  speak 
frankly,  I  have  had  a  hundred  such  passions.  I 
made  friends  as  a  boy,  quickly  and  romantically, 
with  all  kinds  of  people — some  old,  some  young. 
Then  I  have  loved  books,  and  music,  and,  above  all, 
the  earth  and  the  things  of  the  earth.  To  the 
wholesome,  normal  man  these  things  are  but  an 
agreeable  background,  and  the  real  business  of  life 


Leisure  117 

lies  with  wife  and  child  and  work.  But  to  me  the 
real  things  have  been  the  beautiful  things — sunrise 
and  sunset,  streams  and  woods,  old  houses,  talk, 
poetrj^  pictures,  ideas.  And  I  always  liked  my 
work,  too." 

"And  you  did  it  w^ell? "  I  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,  well  enough,"  he  replied,  "  I  have 
a  clear  head,  and  I  am  conscientious ;  and  then  there 
was  some  fun  to  be  got  out  of  it  at  times.  But 
it  was  never  a  part  of  myself  for  all  that.  And  the 
reason  why  I  gave  it  up  w^as  not  because  I  was  tired 
of  it,  but  because  I  w^as  getting  to  depend  too  much 
upon  it.  I  should  very  soon  have  been  unable  to 
do  without  it." 

"  But  what  is  your  programme?  "  I  said,  rather 
urgently.  "  Don't  you  want  to  be  of  some  use 
in  the  w^orld?  To  make  other  people  better  and 
happier,  for  instance." 

"  JNly  dear  boy,"  said  my  companion,  mth  a 
smile,  "  do  j^ou  know  that  you  are  talking  in  a  very 
conventional  Avay?  Of  course,  I  desire  that  people 
should  be  better  and  happier,  myself  among  the 
number;  but  how  am  I  to  set  about  it?  IMost  peo- 
ple's idea  of  being  better  and  happier  is  to  make 
other  people  subscribe  to  make  them  richer.  They 
want  more  things  to  eat  and  drink  and  wear;  they 
want  success  and  respectability,  to  be  sidesmen  and 
town  councillors,  and  even  ^lembers  of  Parliament. 


118  The  Thread  of  Gold 

Nothing  is  more  hopelessly  unimaginative  than  or- 
dinary people's  aims  and  ideas,  and  the  aims  and 
ideas,  too,  that  are  propounded  from  pulpits.  I 
don't  want  people  to  be  richer  and  more  prosper- 
ous ;  I  want  them  to  be  poorer  and  simpler.  Which 
is  the  better  man,  the  shepherd  there  on  the  down, 
out  all  day  in  the  air,  seeing  a  thousand  pretty 
things,  or  the  grocer  behind  his  counter,  living  in 
an  odour  of  lard  and  cheese,  bowing  and  fussing, 
and  drinking  spirits  in  the  evening?     Of  course,  a  ;■ 

wholesome-minded  man  may  be  wholesome-minded 
everywhere  and  anywhere;  but  prosperity,  which  is 
the  Englishman's  idea  of  righteousness,  is  a  very 
dangerous  thing,  and  has  very  little  of  what  is  di- 
vine about  it.  If  I  had  stuck  to  my  work,  as  all  my 
friends  advised  me,  what  would  have  been  the  re- 
sult? I  should  have  had  more  money  than  I  want, 
and  nothing  in  the  world  to  live  for  but  my  work.  I 

Of  course,  I  know  that  I  run  the  risk  of  being  | 

thought  indolent  and  unpractical.       If  I  were  a  | 

prophet,  I  should  find  it  easy  enough  to  scold 
everybody,  and  find  fault  with  the  poor,  peaceful  || 

world.     But  as  I  am  not,  I  can  only  follow  my  own  ^j. 

line  of  life,  and  try  to  see  and  love  as  many  as  I  can  I 

of  the  beautiful  things  that  God  flings  down  all 
round  us.  I  am  not  a  philanthropist,  I  suppose; 
but  most  of  the  philanthropists  I  have  known 
have  seemed  to  me  tiresome,  self-seeking  people, 


Leisure  119 

with  a  taste  for  trying  to  take  everj^thing  out  of 
God's  hands.  I  am  an  individualist,  I  imagine.  I 
think  that  most  of  us  have  to  find  our  way,  and  to 
find  it  alone.  I  do  try  to  help  a  few  quiet  people  at 
the  right  moment;  but  I  believe  that  every  one  has 
his  own  circle — some  larger,  some  smaller — and  that 
one  does  little  good  outside  it.  If  every  one  would 
be  content  with  that,  the  world  would  be  mended  in 
a  trice." 

"  I  am  glad  that  j^ou,  at  least,  admit  that  there 
is  something  to  be  mended,"  I  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  he,  "  the  general  conditions  seem 
to  me  to  want  mending;  but  that,  I  humbly  think, 
is  God's  matter,  and  not  mine.  The  world  is 
slowly  broadening  and  improving,  I  believe.  In 
these  days,  when  we  shoot  our  enemies  and  then 
nurse  them,  we  are  coming,  I  believe,  to  see  even 
the  gigantic  absurdity  of  war ;  but  all  that  side  of  it 
is  too  big  for  me.  I  am  no  philosopher!  What  I 
believe  we  ought  to  do  is  to  be  patient,  kind,  and 
courageous  in  a  corner.  Now,  I  will  give  j^ou  an 
instance.  I  had  a  friend  who  was  a  good,  hard- 
working clergyman;  a  brave,  genial,  courageous 
creature ;  he  had  a  town  parish  not  far  from  here ;  he 
liked  his  work,  and  he  did  it  well.  He  was  the 
friend  of  all  the  boys  and  girls  in  the  parish;  he 
worked  a  hundred  useful,  humble  institutions.  lie 
was  nothing  of  a  preacher,  and  a  poor  speaker ;  but 


120  The  THRE.y)  or  Gold 

something  generous,  honest,  happy  seemed  to  radi- 
ate from  the  man.  Of  course,  they  could  not  let 
him  alone.  They  offered  him  a  Bishopric.  All 
his  friends  said  he  was  bound  to  take  it;  the  poor 
fellow  wrote  to  me,  and  said  that  he  dared  not  re- 
fuse a  sphere  of  wider  influence,  and  all  that.  I 
wrote  and  told  him  my  mind — namely,  that  he  was 
doing  a  splendid  piece  of  quiet,  sober  work,  and 
that  he  had  better  stick  to  it.  But,  of  course,  he 
did  n't.  Well,  what  is  the  result  ?  He  is  worried 
to  death.  He  has  a  big  house  and  a  big  household ; 
he  is  a  welcome  guest  in  country-houses  and  vicar- 
ages; he  opens  churches,  he  confirms;  he  makes 
endless  poor  sj)eeches,  and  preaches  weak  sermons. 
His  time  is  all  frittered  away  in  directing  the  ela- 
borate machinery  of  a  diocese;  and  all  his  personal 
work  is  gone.  I  don't  say  he  does  n't  impress  peo- 
ple. But  his  strength  lay  in  his  personal  work,  his 
work  as  a  neighbour  and  a  friend.  He  is  not  a 
clever  man;  he  never  says  a  suggestive  thing — he  is 
not  a  sower  of  thoughts,  but  a  simple  pastor.  Well, 
I  regard  it  as  a  huge  and  lamentable  mistake  that  t 

he  should  ever  have  changed  his  course;  and  the  * 

motive  that  made  him  do  it  was  a  bad  one,  only  dis- 
guised as  an  angel  of  light.     Instead  of  being  the 
stoker  of  the  train,  he  is  now  a  distinguished  pas- 
senger in  a  first-class  carriage."  .. 
"  Well,"  I  said,  "  I  admit  that  there  is  a  good              ^ 


Leisube  121 

deal  in  what  you  say.  But  if  such  a  summons 
comes  to  a  man,  is  it  not  more  simple-minded  to  fol- 
low it  dutifully?  Is  it  not,  after  all,  part  of  the 
guiding  of  God? " 

"Ah!"  said  my  host,  "that  is  a  hard  question, 
I  admit.  But  a  man  must  look  deep  into  his  heart, 
and  face  a  situation  of  the  kind  bravely  and  simply. 
He  must  be  quite  sure  that  it  is  a  summons  from 
God,  and  not  a  temptation  from  the  world.  I  ad- 
mit that  it  may  be  the  former.  But  in  the  case  of 
which  I  have  just  spoken,  my  friend  ought  to  have 
seen  that  it  was  the  latter.  He  was  made  for  the 
work  he  was  doing ;  he  was  obviously  not  made  for 
the  other.  And  to  sum  it  up,  I  think  that  God 
puts  us  into  the  world  to  live,  not  necessarily  to  get 
influence  over  other  people.  If  a  man  is  worth 
anything,  the  influence  comes;  and  I  don't  call  it 
living  to  attend  public  luncheons,  and  to  write 
unnecessarj''  letters,  because  public  luncheons  are 
things  which  need  not  exist,  and  are  only  amuse- 
ments invented  by  fussy  and  idle  people.  I  am  not 
at  all  against  people  amusing  themselves.  But 
they  ought  to  do  it  quietly  and  inexpensively,  and 
not  elaborately  and  noisily.  The  only  thing  that 
is  certain  is  that  men  must  work  and  eat  and  sleep 
and  die.  Well,  I  want  them  to  enjoy  their  work, 
their  food,  their  rest ;  and  then  I  should  like  them  to 
enjoy  their  leisure  hours  peacefully  and  quietly. 


122  The  Thread  of  Gold 

I  have  done  as  much  in  my  twenty  years  of  business 
as  a  man  in  a  well-regulated  state  ought  to  do  in  the 
whole  of  his  life ;  and  the  rest  I  shall  give,  God  will- 
ing, to  leisure — not  eating  my  cake  in  a  corner,  but 
in  quiet  good  fellowship,  with  an  eye  and  an  ear 
for  this  wonderful  and  beautiful  world."  And 
my  companion  smiled  upon  me  a  large,  gentle,  en- 
gaging smile. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  you  have  answered  well,  and 
you  have  given  me  plenty  to  think  about.  And 
at  all  events  you  have  a  point  of  view,  and  that  is  a 
great  thing." 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  a  great  thing,  as  long  as  one 
is  not  sure  one  is  right,  but  ready  to  learn,  and  not 
desirous  to  teach.  That  is  the  mistake.  We  are 
children  at  school — we  ought  not  to  forget  that ;  but 
many  of  us  want  to  sit  in  the  master's  chair,  and  rap 
the  desk,  and  cane  the  other  children." 

And  so  our  talk  wandered  to  other  things;  then 
we  were  silent  for  a  little,  while  the  birds  came  home 
to  their  roosts,  and  the  trees  shivered  in  the  breeze 
of  sunset;  till  at  last  the  golden  glow  gathered  in  ^ 

the  west,  and  the  sun  went  do^\Ti  in  state  behind  the  f 

crimson  line  of  sea.  i 

XXII 

I  DESIRE  to  do  a  very  sacred  thing  to-day:  to 
enunciate  a  couple  of  platitudes  and  attest  them. 


iThe  Pleasures  of  Work  123 

It  is  always  a  solemn  moment  in  life  when  one  can 
sincerely  subscribe  to  a  platitude.  Platitudes  are 
the  things  which  people  of  plain  minds  shout  from 
the  stej)s  of  the  staircase  of  life  as  they  ascend ;  and 
to  discover  the  truth  of  a  platitude  by  experience 
means  that  you  have  climbed  a  step  higher. 

The  first  enunciation  is,  that  inthis  w  orld  we  most 
of  us  do  what  we  like.  And  the  corollary  to  that 
is,  that  we  most  of  us  like  what  we  do. 

Of  course,  we  must  begin  by  taking  for  granted 
that  we  most  of  us  are  obliged  to  do  something. 
But  that  granted,  it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  very  rare 
to  find  people  who  do  not  take  a  certain  pleasure  in 
their  work,  and  even  secretly  congratulate  them- 
selves on  doing  it  with  a  certain  style  and  efficiency. 
To  find  a  person  who  has  not  some  species  of  pride 
of  this  nature  is  very  rare.  Other  people  may  not 
share  our  opinion  of  our  own  work.  But  even  in 
the  case  of  those  whose  work  is  most  open  to  criti- 
cism, it  is  almost  invariable  to  find  that  they  resent 
criticism,  and  are  very  ready  to  appropriate  praise. 
I  had  a  curiously  complete  instance  of  this  the  other 
day.  In  a  parish  which  I  often  visit,  the  organ  in 
the  church  is  w^hat  is  called  presided  over  by  the 
most  infamous  executant  I  have  ever  heard — an 
elderly  man,  who  seldom  plaj^s  a  single  chord  cor- 
rectly, and  whose  attempts  to  use  the  pedals  are  of 
the  nature  of  tentative  and  unsuccessful  exjDeri- 


124  The  Thread  of  Gold 

ments.  His  performance  has  lately  caused  a  con- 
siderable amount  of  indignation  in  the  parish,  for  a 
new  organ  has  been  placed  in  the  church,  of  far 
louder  tone  than  the  old  instrument,  and  my  friend 
the  organist  is  hopelessly  adrift  upon  it.  The 
residents  in  the  place  have  almost  made  up  their 
minds  to  send  a  round-robin  to  the  Vicar  to  ask 
that  the  pulsator  organorum,  the  beater  of  the  or- 
gan, as  old  Cathedral  statutes  term  him,  maj^  be 
deposed.  The  last  time  I  attended  service,  one  of 
those  strangely  appropriate  verses  came  up  in  the 
course  of  the  Psalms,  which  make  troubled  spirits 
feel  that  the  Psalter  does  indeed  utter  a  message  to 
faithful  individual  hearts.  "I  have  desired  that 
they,  even  my  enemies^''  ran  the  verse,  "  shoidd  not 
triuinph  over  me;  for  when  my  foot  slipped,  they 
rejoiced  greatly  against  me."  In  the  course  of 
the  verse  the  unhappy  performer  executed  a  per- 
fect fandango  on  the  pedals.  I  looked  guiltily 
at  the  senior  churchwarden,  and  saw  his  mouth 
twitch. 

In  the  same  afternoon  I  fell  in  with  the  organist, 
in  the  course  of  a  stroll,  and  discoursed  to  him  in  a 
tone  of  gentle  condolence  about  the  difficulties  of  a 
new  instrument.  He  looked  blankly  at  me,  and 
then  said  that  he  supposed  that  some  people  might 
find  a  change  of  instrument  bewildering,  but  that 
for  himself  he  felt  equally  at  home  on  any  instru- 


The  Pleasures  of  Work  125 

ment.  He  went  on  to  relate  a  series  of  comx^li- 
ments  that  well-known  musicians  had  paid  him, 
which  I  felt  must  either  have  been  imperfectly 
recollected,  or  else  must  have  been  of  a  consolatory 
or  even  ironical  nature.  In  five  minutes,  I  discov- 
ered that  my  friend  was  the  victim  of  an  abundant 
vanity,  and  that  he  believed  that  Ms  vocation  in  life 
was  organ-playing. 

Again,  I  remember  that,  when  I  was  a  school- 
master, one  of  my  colleagues  was  a  perfect  byword 
for  the  disorder  and  noise  that  j)revailed  in  his 
form.  I  happened  once  to  hold  a  conversation 
with  him  on  disciplinary  difficulties,  thinking  that 
he  might  have  the  relief  of  confiding  his  troubles 
to  a  sympathising  friend.  What  was  my  amaze- 
ment when  I  discovered  that  his  view  of  the  situa- 
tion was,  that  every  one  was  confronted  with  the 
same  difficulties  as  himself,  and  that  he  obviously 
believed  that  he  was  rather  more  successful  than 
most  of  us  in  dealing  with  them  tactfully  and 
strictly. 

I  believe  my  principle  to  be  of  almost  universal 
application ;  and  that  if  one  could  see  into  the  heart 
of  the  people  who  are  accounted,  and  rightly  ac- 
counted, to  be  gross  and  conspicuous  failures,  we 
should  find  that  they  were  not  free  from  a  certain 
pleasant  vanity  about  their  own  qualifications  and 
efficiency.     The  few  peoj^le  whom  I  have  met  who 


126  The  Thbe.m)  or  Gold 

are  apt  to  despond  over  their  work  are  generally 
people  who  do  it  remarkabl}^  well,  and  whose  ideal 
of  efficiency  is  so  high  that  they  criticise  severely 
in  themselves  any  deviation  from  their  standard. 
Moreover,  if  one  goes  a  little  deeper — if,  for  in- 
stance, one  cordially  re-echoes  their  own  criticisms 
upon  their  work — such  criticisms  are  apt  to  be 
deeply  resented. 

I  will  go  further,  and  say  that  only  once  in  the 
course  of  my  life  have  I  found  a  man  who  did  his 
work  really  well,  without  anj^  particular  pride  and 
pleasure  in  it.  To  do  that  implies  an  extraord- 
inary degree  of  will-power  and  self-command. 

I  do  not  mean  to  say  that,  if  any  professional 
person  found  himself  suddenly  placed  in  the  pos- 
session of  an  independent  income,  greater  than  he 
had  ever  derived  from  his  professional  work,  his 
pleasure  in  his  work  would  be  sufficient  to  retain 
him  in  the  exercise  of  it.  We  have  most  of  us  an 
unhajDpy  belief  in  our  power  of  living  a  pleasurable 
and  virtuous  life  of  leisure;  and  the  desire  to  live 
what  is  called  the  life  of  a  gentleman,  which  char- 
acter has  lately  been  defined  as  a  person  who  has  no 
professional  occupation,  is  very  strong  in  the  hearts 
of  most  of  us. 

But,  for  all  that,  we  most  of  us  enjoj^  our  work; 
the  mere  fact  that  one  gains  facilit}^  and  improves 
from  day  to  day,  is  a  source  of  sincere  pleasure, 


The  Pleasures  of  Work  127 

however  far  short  of  perfection  our  attemj)ts  may 
fall,  and,  generally  speaking,  our  choice  of  a 
profession  is  mainly  dictated  by  a  certain  feeling 
of  aptitude  for  and  interest  in  what  we  propose 
to  undertake. 

It  is,  then,  a  happy  and  merciful  delusion  by 
which  we  are  bound.  We  grow,  I  think,  to  love 
our  work,  and  we  grow,  too,  to  believe  in  our  method 
of  doing  it.  We  cannot,  a  great  preacher  once 
said,  all  delude  ourselves  into  believing  that  we  are 
richer,  handsomer,  braver,  more  distinguished  than 
others ;  but  there  are  few  of  us  who  do  not  cherish  a 
secret  belief  that,  if  only  the  truth  were  known,  we 
should  prove  to  be  more  interesting  than  others. 

To  leave  our  work  for  a  moment,  and  to  turn  to 
ordinary  social  intercourse.  I  am  convinced  that 
the  only  thing  that  can  account  for  the  large  num- 
ber of  bad  talkers  in  the  world  is  the  wide-spread 
belief  that  prevails  among  individuals  as  to  their 
power  of  contributing  interest  and  amusement  to  a 
circle.  One  ought  to  keep  this  in  mind,  and  bear 
faithfully  and  patiently  the  stream  of  tiresome  talk 
that  pours,  as  from  a  hose,  from  the  lips  of  diffuse 
and  lengthy  conversationalists.  I  once  made  a  ter- 
rible mistake.  From  the  mere  desire  of  sajang 
something  agreeable,  and  finding  my  choice  of 
praiseworthy  qualities  limited  I  complimented  an 
elderly,  garrulous  acquaintance  on  his  geniality,  on 


128  The  Thread  of  Gold 

an  evening  when  I  had  writhed  uneasily  under  a 
steady  downpour  of  talk.  I  have  bitterly  rued  my 
insincerity.  Not  only  have  I  received  innumerable 
invitations  from  the  man  whom  the  Americans 
would  call  my  complimentee,  but  when  I  am  in  his 
company  I  see  him  making  heroic  attempts  to  make 
his  conversations  practically  continuous.  How  often 
since  that  day  have  I  sympathised  with  St.  James 
in  his  eloquent  description  of  the  deadly  and 
poisonous  power  of  the  tongue!  A  bore  is  not,  as 
is  often  believed,  a  merely  selfish  and  uninteresting 
person.  He  is  often  a  man  Avho  labours  conscien- 
tiously and  faithfully  at  an  accomplishment,  the 
exercise  of  which  has  become  pleasurable  to  him. 
And  thus  a  bore  is  the  hardest  of  all  people  to  con- 
vert, because  he  is,  as  a  rule,  conscious  of  virtue  and 
beneficence. 

On  the  whole,  it  is  better  not  to  disturb  the 
amiable  delusions  of  our  fellow-men,  unless  we  are 
certain  that  we  can  improve  them.  To  break  the 
spring  of  happiness  in  a  virtuous  bore  is  a  serious 
responsibility.  It  is  better,  perhaps,  both  in  mat- 
ters of  work  and  in  matters  of  social  life,  to  en- 
courage our  friends  to  believe  in  themselves.  We 
must  not,  of  course,  encourage  them  in  vicious  and 
hurtful  enjoyment,  and  there  are,  of  course,  bores 
whose  tediousness  is  not  only  not  harmless,  but  a 
positively  noxious  and  injurious  quality.      There 


The  Abbey  129 

are  bores  who  have  but  to  lay  a  finger  upon  a  sub- 
ject of  universal  or  special  interest,  to  make  one 
feel  that  under  no  circumstances  will  one  ever  be 
able  to  allow  one's  thoughts  to  dwell  on  the  subject 
again;  and  such  a  person  should  be,  as  far  as  pos- 
sible, isolated  from  human  intercourse,  like  a  suf- 
ferer from  a  contagious  malady.  But  this 
extremity  of  noxiousness  is  rare.  And  it  may  be 
said  that,  as  a  rule,  one  does  more  to  increase  hap- 
piness by  a  due  amount  of  recognition  and  praise, 
even  when  one  is  recognising  rather  the  spirit  of  a 
performance  than  the  actual  result;  and  such  a 
course  of  action  has  the  additional  advantage  of 
making  one  into  a  person  who  is  eagerly  welcomed 
and  sought  after  in  all  kinds  of  society. 

XXIII 

The  fresh  wind  blew  cheerily  as  we  raced,  my 
friend  and  I,  across  a  long  stretch  of  rich  fen-land. 
The  sunlight,  falling  somewhat  dimly  through  a 
golden  haze,  lay  very  pleasantly  on  the  large  pas- 
ture-fields. There  are  few  things  more  beautiful, 
I  think,  than  these  great  level  plains ;  they  give  one 
a  delightful  sense  of  space  and  repose.  The  dis- 
tant lines  of  trees,  the  far-off  church  towers,  the 
long  dykes,  the  hamlets  half-hidden  in  orchards,  the 
"  sky-space  and  field-silence,"  give  one  a  feeling  of 


130  The  Thre^ud  of  Gold 

quiet  rustic  life  lived  on  a  large  and  simple  scale, 
which  seems  the  natural  life  of  the  world. 

Our  goal  was  the  remains  of  an  old  religious 
house,  now  a  farm.  We  were  soon  at  the  place; 
it  stood  on  a  very  gentle  rising-ground,  once  an 
island  above  the  fen.  Two  great  columns  of  the 
Abbey  Church  served  as  gate-posts.  The  house  it- 
self lay  a  little  back  from  the  road,  a  comfortable 
cluster  of  big  barns  and  outhouses,  with  great  wal- 
nut trees  all  about,  in  the  middle  of  an  ancient  tract 
of  pasture,  full  of  dimpled  excavations,  in  which 
the  turf  grew  greener  and  more  compact.  The 
farm-house  itself,  a  large  irregular  Georgian  build- 
ing covered  with  rough  orange  plaster,  showed  a 
pleasant  tiled  roof  among  the  barns,  over  a  garden 
set  with  venerable  sprawling  box-trees.  We  found 
a  friendly  old  labourer,  full  of  simple  talk,  who 
showed  us  the  orchard,  with  its  mouldering  wall  of 
stone,  pierced  with  niches,  the  line  of  dry  stew- 
ponds,  the  refectory,  now  a  great  barn,  piled  high 
with  heaps  of  grain  and  straw.  We  walked 
through  byres  tenanted  by  comfortable  pigs  rout- 
ing in  the  dirt.  We  hung  over  a  paling  to  watch 
the  creased  and  discontented  face  of  an  old  hog, 
grunting  in  shrill  anticij)ation  of  a  meal.  Our 
guide  took  us  to  the  house,  where  we  found  a  tran- 
sept of  the  church,  now  used  as  a  brew-house,  with 
the  line  of  the  staircase  still  visible,  rising  up  to  a 


The  Abbey  131 

door  in  the  wall  that  led  once  to  the  dormitory, 
down  the  steps  of  which,  night  after  night,  the  shiv- 
ering and  sleepy  monks  must  have  stumbled  into 
their  chilly  church  for  prayers.  The  hall  of  the 
house  was  magnificent  with  great  Xorman  arches, 
once  the  aisle  of  the  nave. 

The  whole  scene  had  the  busy,  comfortable  air 
of  a  place  full  of  patriarchal  life,  the  dignity  of  a 
thing  existing  for  use  and  not  for  show,  of  quiet 
prosperity,  of  garnered  provender  and  well-fed 
stock.  Though  it  made  no  deliberate  attempt  at 
beauty,  it  was  full  of  a  seemly  and  homely  charm. 
The  face  of  the  old  fellow  that  led  us  about,  chirp- 
ing fragments  of  local  tradition,  with  a  mild  pride 
in  the  fact  that  strangers  cared  to  come  and  see  the 
place,  wore  the  contented,  weather-beaten  look  that 
comes  of  a  life  of  easy  labour  spent  in  the  open  air. 
His  patched  gaiters,  the  sacking  tied  round  him 
with  a  cord  to  serve  as  an  apron,  had  the  same  sim- 
ple appropriateness.  We  w^alked  leisurely  about, 
gathering  a  hundred  pretty  impressions, — as  of  the 
old  filbert-trees  that  fringed  the  orchard,  the  wall- 
flowers, which  our  guide  called  the  blood-warriors, 
on  the  ruined  coping,  a  flight  of  pigeons  turning 
with  a  sharp  clatter  in  the  air.  At  last  he  left  us 
to  go  about  his  little  business;  and  we,  sitting  on  a 
broken  mounting-block  in  the  sunshine,  gazed 
lazily  and  contentedly  at  the  scene. 


132  The  Thread  of  Gold 

We  attempted  to  picture  something  of  the  life 
of  the  Benedictines  who  built  the  house.  It  must 
have  been  a  life  of  much  quiet  happiness.  We  tried 
to  see  in  imagination  the  quaint  clustered  fabrics, 
the  ancient  church,  the  cloister,  the  barns,  the  out- 
buildings. The  brethren  must  have  suffered  much 
from  cold  in  winter.  The  day  divided  by  services, 
the  nights  broken  by  prayers;  probably  the  time 
was  dull  enough,  but  passed  quickly,  like  all  lives 
full  of  monotonous  engagements.  They  were  not 
particularly  ascetic,  these  Benedictines,  and  insisted 
much  on  manual  labour  in  the  open  air.  Probably 
at  first  the  monks  did  their  farm-w^ork  as  well;  but 
as  they  grew  richer,  they  employed  labourers,  and 
themselves  fell  back  on  simpler  and  easier  garden- 
v^'ork.  Perhaps  some  few  were  truly  devotional 
spirits,  with  a  fire  of  prayer  and  aspiration  burning 
in  their  hearts;  but  the  majority  would  be  quiet 
men,  full  of  little  gossip  about  possible  promotions, 
about  lands  and  crops,  about  wayfarers  and  ecclesi- 
astics who  passed  that  M^ay  and  were  entertained. 
Very  few,  except  certain  officials  like  the  Cellarer, 
who  would  have  to  ride  to  market,  ever  left  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  place,  but  laid  their  bones  in  the  little 
graveyard  east  of  the  church.  We  make  a  mistake 
in  regarding  the  life  and  the  building  as  having 
been  so  picturesque,  as  they  now  appear  after  the 
long  lapse  of  time.     The  church  was  more  vener- 


The  Abbey  133 

able  than  the  rest;  but  the  refectory,  at  the  time  of 
the  dissolution,  cannot  have  been  long  built;  still, 
the  old  tiled  place,  with  its  rough  stone  walls,  must 
have  always  had  a  quaint  and  irregular  air. 

Probably  it  was  as  a  rule  a  contented  and  ami- 
able society.  The  regular  hours,  the  wholesome 
fatigue  which  the  rule  entailed,  must  have  tended 
to  keep  the  inmates  in  health  and  good-humour. 
But  probably  there  was  much  tittle-tattle;  and  a 
disagreeable,  jealous,  or  scheming  inmate  must 
have  been  able  to  stir  up  a  good  deal  of  strife  in  a 
society  living  at  such  close  quarters.  One  thinks 
loosely  that  it  must  have  resembled  the  life  of  a 
college  at  the  University;  but  that  is  an  entire  mis- 
apprehension; for  the  idea  of  a  college  is  liberty 
with  just  enough  discipline  to  hold  it  together, 
while  the  idea  of  a  monastery  was  discipline  with 
just  enough  liberty  to  make  life  tolerable. 

Well,  it  is  all  over  now !  the  idea  of  the  monastic 
life,  which  was  to  make  a  bulwark  for  quiet-minded 
people  against  the  rougher  world,  is  no  longer 
needed.  The  work  of  the  monks  is  done.  Yet  I 
gave  an  affectionate  thought  across  the  ages  to  the 
old  inmates  of  the  place,  whose  bones  have  mould- 
ered into  the  dust  of  the  yard  where  we  sat.  It 
seemed  half -pleasant,  half-i^athetic  to  think  of  them 
as  they  went  about  their  w^ork,  sturdy,  cheerful  fig- 
ures, looking  out  over  the  wide  fen  with  all  its  clear 


134  The  THREiU)  of  Gold 

pools  and  reed-beds,  growing  old  in  the  familiar 
scene,  passing  from  the  dormitory  to  the  infirmary, 
and  from  the  infirmary  to  the  graveyard,  in  a  sure 
and  certain  hope.  They  too  enjoyed  the  first 
breaking  of  spring,  the  return  of  balmy  winds,  the 
pushing  up  of  the  delicate  flowers  in  orchard  and 
close,  with  something  of  the  same  pleasure  that  I 
experience  to-day.  The  same  wonder  that  I  feel, 
the  same  gentle  thrill  speaking  of  an  unattainable 
peace,  an  unruffled  serenity  that  lies  so  near  me  in 
the  spring  sunshine,  flashed,  no  doubt,  into  those 
elder  spirits.  Perhaps,  indeed,  their  heart  went 
out  to  the  unborn  that  should  come  after  them,  as 
my  heart  goes  out  to  the  dead  to-da3^ 

And  even  the  slow  change  that  has  dismantled 
that  busy  place,  and  established  it  as  the  quiet  farm- 
stead that  I  see,  holds  a  hope  within  it.  There  must 
indeed  have  been  a  sad  time  when  the  buildings 
were  slipping  into  decay,  and  the  church  stood 
ruined  and  roofless.  But  how  soon  the  scars  are 
healed!  How  calmly  nature  smiles  at  the  eager 
schemes  of  men,  breaks  them  short,  and  then  sets 
herself  to  harmonise  and  adorn  the  ruin,  till  she 
makes  it  fairer  than  before,  writing  her  patient  les- 
son of  beaut}^  on  broken  choir  and  tottering  w^all, 
flinging  her  tide  of  fresh  life  over  the  rents,  and 
tenderly  drawing  back  the  broken  fragments  into 
her  bosom.     If  we  could  not  learn  from  her  not  to 


(I 


Wordsworth  135 

fret  or  grieve,  to  gather  up  what  remains,  to  Avait 
patiently  and  wisely  for  our  change! 

So  I  reasoned  softly  to  myself  in  a  train  of  gentle 
thought,  till  the  plough-horses  came  clattering  in, 
and  the  labourers  plodded  gratefully  home ;  and  the 
sun  went  down  over  the  flats  in  a  great  glory  of 
orange  light. 

XXIV 

I  BELIEVE  that  I  was  once  taken  to  Rydal  Mount 
as  a  small  boy,  led  there  meekly,  no  doubt,  in  a  sort 
of  dream ;  but  I  retain  not  the  remotest  recollection 
of  the  place,  except  of  a  small  flight  of  stone  steps, 
which  struck  me  as  possessing  some  attractive  qual- 
ity or  other.  And  I  have  since  read,  I  suppose,  a 
good  many  descriptions  of  the  place;  but  on  visit- 
ing it,  as  I  recently  did,  I  discovered  that  I  had  not 
the  least  idea  of  what  it  was  like.  And  I  would 
here  shortly  speak  of  the  extraordinary  kindness 
which  I  received  from  the  present  tenants,  who  are 
indeed  of  the  hallowed  dynasty ;  it  may  suffice  to  say 
that  I  could  only  admire  the  delicate  courtesy  which 
enabled  people,  who  must  have  done  the  same  thing 
a  hundred  times  before,  to  show  me  the  house  with 
as  much  zest  and  interest,  as  if  I  was  the  first  pil- 
grim that  had  ever  visited  the  place. 

In  the  first  j)lace,  the  great  simplicity  of  the 


h 


136  The  Thread  of  Gold 

whole  struck  me.  It  is  like  a  little  grange  or  farm. 
The  rooms  are  small  and  low,  and  of  a  pleasant 
domesticity;  it  is  a  place  apt  for  a  patriarchal  hfe, 
w^here  simple  people  might  live  at  close  quarters 
with  each  other.  The  house  is  hardly  visible  from 
the  gate.  You  turn  out  of  a  steep  lane,  embowered 
by  trees,  into  a  little  gravel  sweep,  approaching  the 
house  from  the  side.  But  its  position  is  selected 
with  admirable  art ;  the  ground  falls  steeply  in  front 
of  it,  and  you  look  out  over  a  wide  valley,  at  the  end 
of  which  Windermere  lies,  a  tract  of  sapphire  blue, 
among  wooded  hills  and  dark  ranges.  Behind,  the 
ground  rises  still  more  steeply,  to  the  rocky,  grassy 
heights  of  Nab  Scar;  and  the  road  leads  on  to  a 
high  green  valley  among  the  hills,  a  place  of  un- 
utterable peace. 

In  this  warm,  sheltered  nook,  hidden  In  woods, 
with  its  southerly  aspect,  the  vegetation  grows  wdth 
an  almost  tropical  luxuriance,  so  that  the  general 
impression  of  the  place  is  by  no  means  typically 
Enghsh.  Laurels  and  rhododendrons  grow  in 
dense  shrubberies;  the  trees  are  full  of  leaf;  flow- 
ers blossom  profusely.  There  is  a  little  orchard 
beneath  the  house,  and  everywhere  there  is  the  frag- 
grant  and  pungent  smell  of  sun  warmed  garden- 
walks  and  box-hedges.  There  are  little  terraces 
everywhere,  banked  up  with  stone  walls  built  into 
the  steep  ground,  where  stonecrops  grow  richly. 


WORDSAVORTH  137 

One  of  these  leads  to  a  little  thatched  arbour,  where 
the  poet  often  sat;  below  it,  the  ground  falls  very 
rapidly,  among  rocks  and  copse  and  fern,  so  that 
you  look  out  on  to  the  tree-tops  below,  and  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  steely  waters  of  the  hidden  lake  of 
Rydal. 

Wordsw^orth  lived  there  for  more  than  thirty 
years;  and  half  a  century  has  passed  since  he  died. 
He  was  a  skilful  landscape  gardener;  and  I  sup- 
pose that  in  his  lifetime,  when  the  walks  were  being 
constructed  and  the  place  laid  out,  it  must  have  had 
a  certain  air  of  newness,  of  interference  with  the  old 
wild  peace  of  the  hillside,  which  it  has  since  parted 
with.  Now  it  is  all  as  full  of  a  quiet  and  settled 
order,  as  if  it  had  been  thus  for  ever.  One  little  de- 
tail deserves  a  special  mention ;  just  below  the  house, 
there  is  an  odd,  circular,  low,  grassy  mound,  said  to 
be  the  old  meeting-place  for  the  village  council,  in 
primitive  and  patriarchal  days, — the  JNIount,  from 
which  the  place  has  its  name. 

I  thought  much  of  the  stately,  simple,  self-ab- 
sorbed poet,  whom  somehow  one  never  thinks  of  as 
having  been  young ;  the  lines  of  JMilton  haunted  me, 
as  I  moved  about  the  rooms,  the  garden-terraces : — 

^'In  this  mount  he  appeared;  under  this  tree 
Stood  visible  ;  among  these lyines  his  voice 
I  heard ;  here  loith  him  at  this  fountain  talked. " 

The  place  is  all  permeated  with  the  thought  of  him, 


138  The  Thee^^d  of  Gold 

his  deep  and  tranquil  worship  of  natural  beaut j^,  his 
love  of  the  kindly  earth. 

I  do  not  think  that  Wordsworth  is  one  whose 
memory  evokes  a  deep  personal  attachment.  I 
doubt  if  any  figures  of  bygone  days  do  that,  unless 
there  is  a  certain  wistful  pathos  about  them ;  unless 
something  of  compassion,  some  wish  to  proffer 
sympathy  or  consolation,  mingles  with  one's  rever- 
ence. I  have  often,  for  instance,  stayed  at  a  house 
where  Shellej^  spent  a  few  half-rapturous,  half- 
miserable  months.  There,  meditating  about  him, 
striving  to  reconstruct  the  picture  of  his  life,  one 
felt  that  he  suffered  much  and  needlessly;  one 
would  have  wished  to  shelter,  to  protect  him  if 
it  had  been  possible,  or  at  least  to  have  proffered 
sympathy  to  that  inconsolable  spirit.  One's  heart 
goes  out  to  those  who  suffered  long  years  ago, 
whose  love  of  the  earth,  of  life,  of  beauty,  was  per- 
petually overshadowed  by  the  pain  that  comes  from 
realising  transitoriness  and  decaj^ 

But  Wordsworth  is  touched  by  no  such  pathos. 
He  was  extraordinarily  prosperous  and  equable; 
he  was  undeniably  self-sufficient.  Even  the  sor- 
rows and  bereavements  that  he  had  to  bear  were 
borne  gently  and  philosophically.  He  knew  ex- 
actly what  he  wanted  to  do,  and  did  it.  Those 
sturdy,  useful  legs  of  his  bore  him  many  a  pleasant 
mile.     He  always  had  exactly  as  much  money  as 


WORDS^VORTH  139 

he  needed,  in  order  to  live  his  Hfe  as  he  desired.  He 
chose  preciselj^  the  abode  he  preferred;  his  fame 
grew  slowly  and  solidly.  He  became  a  great  per- 
sonage ;  he  was  treated  with  immense  deference  and 
respect.  He  neither  claimed  nor  desired  sympa- 
thy; he  was  as  strong  and  self-reliant  as  the  old 
yeomen  of  the  hills,  of  whom  he  indeed  was  one; 
his  vocation  was  poetry,  just  as  their  vocation  was 
agriculture ;  and  this  vocation  he  pursued  in  as  busi- 
ness-like and  intent  a  spirit  as  they  pursued  their 
farming. 

Wordsworth,  indeed,  was  armed  at  all  points  by 
a  strong  and  simple  pride,  too  strong  to  be  vanity, 
too  simple  to  be  egotism.  He  is  one  of  the  few 
supremely  fortunate  men  in  the  historj^  of  litera- 
ture, because  he  had  none  of  the  sensitiveness  or  in- 
decision that  are  so  often  the  curse  of  the  artistic 
temperament.  He  never  had  the  least  misgivings 
about  the  usefulness  of  his  life ;  he  wrote  because  he 
enjoyed  it;  he  ate  and  drank,  he  strolled  and  talked, 
with  the  same  enjoyment.  He  had  a  j)erfect  bal- 
ance of  physical  health.  His  dreams  never  left 
him  cold;  his  exaltations  never  plunged  him  into 
dejDression.  He  felt  the  mysteries  of  the  world 
with  a  solemn  awe,  but  he  had  no  uneasy  question- 
ings, no  remorse,  no  bewilderment,  no  fruitless 
melancholy. 

He  bore  himself  with  the  same  homely  dignity 


140  The  Thread  of  Gold 

in  all  companies  alike ;  he  was  never  particularly  in- 
terested in  any  one ;  he  never  had  any  fear  of  being 
thought  ridiculous  or  pompous.  His  favourite 
reading  was  his  own  poetry ;  he  wished  every  one  to 
be  interested  in  his  work,  because  he  was  conscious 
of  its  supreme  importance.  He  probably  made  the 
mistake  of  thinking  that  it  was  his  sense  of  poetry  ml 

and  beauty  that  made  him  simple  and  tranquil.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  the  simplicity  and  tran- 
quillity of  his  temperament  that  gave  him  the  power 
of  enjoyment  in  so  large  a  measure.  There  is  no 
growth  or  expansion  about  his  life ;  he  did  not  learn 
his  serene  and  impassive  attitude  through  fail- 
ures and  mistakes:  it  was  his  all  along. 

And  yet  what  a  fine,  pure,  noble,  gentle  life  it 
was!  The  very  thought  of  him,  faring  quietly 
about  among  his  hills  and  lakes,  murmuring  his 
calm  verse,  in  a  sober  and  temperate  joy,  looking 
everywhere  for  the  same  grave  qualities  among 
quiet,  homekeeping  folk,  brings  with  it  a  high  in- 
spiration. But  we  tend  to  think  of  Wordsworth 
as  a  father  and  a  priest,  rather  than  as  a  brother  and 
a  friend.  He  is  a  leader  and  a  guide,  not  a  com- 
rade. We  must  learn  that,  though  he  can  perhaps 
turn  our  heart  the  right  wa}^,  towards  the  right 
things,  we  cannot  necessarily  acquire  that  pure 
peace,  that  solemn  serenity,  by  obeying  his  pre- 
cepts, unless  we  to  have  something  of  the  same 


Wordsworth  141 

strong  calmness  of  soul.  In  some  moods,  far  from 
sustaining  and  encouraging  us,  the  thought  of  his 
equable,  impassioned  life  may  only  fill  us  with  un- 
utterable env}^.  But  still  to  have  sat  in  his  homely 
rooms,  to  have  paced  his  little  terraces,  does  bring 
a  certain  imagined  peace  into  the  mind,  a  noble 
shame  for  all  that  is  sordid  or  mean,  a  hatred  for 
the  conventional  aims,  the  pitiful  ambitions  of  the 
world. 

Alas,  that  the  only  sound  from  the  little  hill- 
platform,  the  embowered  walks,  should  be  the  dull 
rolling  of  wheels — motors,  coaches,  omnibuses — in 
the  road  below!  That  is  the  shadow  of  his  great- 
ness. It  is  a  pitiable  thought  that  one  of  the  fruits 
of  his  genius  is  that  it  has  made  his  holy  retreat 
fashionable.  The  villas  rise  in  rows  along  the  edges 
of  the  clear  lakes,  under  the  craggy  fell-sides,  where 
the  feathery  ashes  root  among  the  mimic  precipices. 
A  stream  of  chattering,  vacuous,  indifferent  tour- 
ists pours  listlessly  along  the  road  from  tahle-d'hote 
to  tahle-d'hote.  The  turbid  outflow  of  the  vulgar 
world  seems  a  profanation  of  these  august  haunts. 
One  hopes  despairingly  that  something  of  the  spirit 
of  lonely  beauty  speaks  to  these  trivial  heads  and 
hearts.  But  is  there  consolation  in  this?  What 
would  the  poet  himself  have  felt  if  he  could  have 
foreseen  it  all? 

I  descended  the  hill-road  and  crossed  the  valley 


142  The  Thre.\d  of  Gold 

highwaj'-;  it  was  full  of  dust;  the  vehicles  rolled 
along,  crowded  with  men  smoking  cigars  and  read- 
ing newspapers,  tired  women,  children  whose  idea 
of  pleasure  had  been  to  fill  their  hands  with  ferns 
and  flowers  torn  from  cranny  and  covert.  I 
climbed  the  httle  hill  opposite  the  great  Scar;  its 
green  towering  head,  with  its  feet  buried  in  wood, 
the  hardy  trees  straggling  up  the  front  wherever 
they  could  get  a  hold  among  the  grey  crags,  rose  in 
sweet  grandeur  opposite  to  me.  I  threaded  tracks 
of  shimmering  fern,  out  of  which  the  buzzing  flies 
rose  round  me;  I  w^ent  by  silent,  solitary  places 
\vhere  the  springs  soak  out  of  the  moorland,  while  I 
pondered  over  the  bewildering  ways  of  the  world. 
The  life,  the  ideals  of  the  great  poet,  set  in  the 
splendid  framework  of  the  great  hills,  seemed  so 
majestic  and  admirable  a  thing.  But  the  visible 
results — the  humming  of  silly  strangers  round  his 
sacred  solitudes,  the  contaminating  influence  of 
commercial  exploitation — made  one  fruitlessly  and 
hopelessly  melanchol}^ 

But  even  so  the  hills  were  silent;  the  sun  went 
down  in  a  great  glory  of  golden  haze  among  the 
shadowy  ridges.  The  valleys  lay  out  at  my  feet, 
the  rolling  woodland,  the  dark  fells.  There  fell  a 
mood  of  strange  yearning  upon  me,  a  j^earning  for 
the  peaceful  secret  that,  as  the  orange  sunset  slowly 
waned,  the  great  hills  seemed  to  guard  and  hold. 


Dorsetshire  143 

What  was  it  that  was  going  on  there,  what  solemn 
pageant,  what  sweet  mystery,  that  I  could  only  de- 
sire to  behold  and  apprehend?  I  know  not!  I 
only  know  that  if  I  could  discern  it,  if  I  could  tell 
it,  the  world  would  stand  to  listen;  its  littleness,  its 
meanness,  would  fade  in  that  august  light;  the 
peace  of  God  would  go  swiftly  and  secretly  abroad. 

XXV 

I  AM  travelling  just  now,  and  am  this  week  at 
Dorchester,  in  the  company  of  my  oldest  and  best 
friend.  We  like  the  same  things;  and  I  can  be 
silent  if  I  wall,  while  I  can  also  say  anything,  how- 
ever whimsical,  that  comes  in  my  mind;  there  are 
few  things  better  than  that  in  the  world,  and  I 
count  the  precious  hours  very  gratefully;  aiopono 
lucro. 

Dorsetshire  gives  me  the  feeling  of  being  a  very 
old  country.  The  big  dow^ns  seem  like  the  bases 
of  great  rocky  hills  which  have  through  long  ages 
been  smoothed  and  worn  away,  softened  and  mel- 
low^ed,  the  rocks,  grain  by  grain,  carried  dow^nw^ards 
into  the  flat  alluvial  meadowlands  beneath.  In 
these  rich  pastures,  all  intersected  with  clear 
streams,  runnels,  and  w^ater-courses,  full  at  this  sea- 
son of  rich  water-plants,  the  cattle  graze  peacefully. 
The  downs  have  been  ploughed  and  sown  up  to  the 


144  The  Thread  of  Goed 

sky-line.  Then  there  are  fine  tracts  of  heather  and 
pines  in  places.  And  then,  too,  there  is  a  sense  of 
old  humanity,  of  ancient  wars  about  the  land. 
There  are  great  camps  and  earth-works  every- 
where, with  ramparts  and  ditches,  both  British  and 
Roman.  The  wolds  from  which  the  sea  is  visible 
are  thickly  covered  with  barrows,  each  holding  the 
mouldering  bones  of  some  forgotten  chieftain,  laid 
to  rest,  how  many  centuries  ago,  with  the  rude 
mourning  of  a  savage  clan.  I  stood  on  one  of  the 
highest  of  these  the  other  day,  on  a  great  gorse-clad 
headland,  and  sent  my  spirit  out  in  quest  of  the  old 
warrior  that  lay  below — "Audisne  haec,  Am- 
phiariie,  sub  terram  condite?"  But  there  was  no 
answer  from  the  air ;  though  in  my  sleep  one  night 
I  saw  a  wild,  red-bearded  man,  in  a  coat  of  skins, 
with  rude  gaiters,  and  a  hat  of  foxes's  fur  on  his 
head;  he  carried  a  long  staff  in  his  hand,  pointed 
with  iron,  and  looked  mutely  and  sorrowfully  upon 
me.     Who  knows  if  it  was  he? 

And  then  of  later  date  are  many  ruinous  strong- 
holds, with  Cyclopean  walls,  like  the  huge  shattered 
bulk  of  Coj'fe,  upon  its  green  hill,  between  the 
shoulders  of  great  downs.  There  are  broken  ab- 
beys, pinnacled  church-towers  in  village  after  vil- 
lage. And  then,  too,  in  hamlet  after  hamlet,  rise 
quaint  stone  manors,  high-gabled,  many-mullioned, 
in  the  midst  of  barns  and  byres.     One  of  the  sweet- 


Dorsetshire  145 

est  places  I  have  seen  is  Cerne  Abbas.  The  road  to 
it  winds  gently  up  among  steep  downs,  a  full  stream 
gliding  through  flat  pastures  at  the  bottom.  The 
hamlet  has  a  forgotten,  w  istf ul  air ;  there  are  many 
houses  in  ruins.  Close  to  the  street  rises  the  church- 
tower,  of  rich  and  beautiful  design,  with  gurgoyles 
and  pinnacles,  cut  out  of  a  soft  orange  stone  and 
delicately  weathered.  At  the  end  of  the  village 
stands  a  big  farm-house,  built  out  of  the  abbey 
ruins,  with  a  fine  oriel  in  one  of  the  granaries.  In 
a  little  wilderness  of  trees,  the  ground  covered  with 
primroses,  stands  the  exquisite  old  gatehouse  with 
mullioned  windows.  I  have  had  for  years  a  poor 
little  engraving  of  the  place,  and  it  seemed  to  greet 
me  like  an  old  friend.  Then,  in  the  pasture  above, 
you  can  see  the  old  terraces  and  mounds  of  the 
monastic  garden,  where  the  busy  Benedictines 
worked  day  by  day ;  further  still,  on  the  side  of  the 
down  itself,  is  cut  a  very  strange  and  ancient  monu- 
ment. It  is  the  rude  and  barbarous  figure  of  a 
naked  man,  sixty  yards  long,  as  though  moving 
northwards,  and  brandishing  a  huge  knotted  club. 
It  is  carved  deep  into  the  turf,  and  is  overgrown 
with  rough  grass.  No  one  can  even  guess  at  the 
antiquity  of  the  figure,  but  it  is  probably  not  less 
than  three  thousand  years  old.  Some  say  that  it 
records  the  death  of  a  monstrous  giant  of  the  valley. 
The  good  monks  Christianised  it,  and  named  it 

10 


146  The  Thread  of  Gold 

Augustine.  But  it  seems  to  be  certainly  one  of 
the  frightful  figures  of  which  Csesar  speaks,  on 
which  captives  were  bound  with  twisted  osiers,  and 
burnt  to  death  for  a  Druidical  sacrifice.  The  thing 
is  grotesque,  vile,  horrible;  the  very  stones  of  the 
place  seem  soaked  with  terror,  cruelty,  and  death. 
Even  recently  foul  and  barbarous  traditions  were 
practised  there,  it  is  said,  by  villagers,  who  were 
Christian  only  in  name.  Yet  it  lay  peace- 
fully enough  to-day,  the  shadows  of  the  clouds 
racing  over  it,  the  wind  rustling  in  the  grass, 
with  nothing  to  break  the  silence  but  the  twitter 
of  birds,  the  bleat  of  sleep  on  the  down,  and  the 
crying  of  cocks  in  the  straw-thatched  village 
below. 

What  a  strange  fabric  of  history,  memory,  and 
tradition  is  here  unrolled,  of  old  unhappy  far-off 
things!  How  bewildering  to  think  of  the  horrible 
agonies  of  fear,  the  helpless,  stupefied  creatures  ly- 
ing bound  there,  the  smoke  sweeping  over  them  and 
the  flames  crackling  nearer,  while  their  victorious 
foes  laughed  and  exulted  round  them,  and  the 
priests  performed  the  last  hideous  rites.  And  all 
the  while  God  watched  the  slow  march  of  days  from 
the  silent  heaven,  and  worked  out  His  mysterious 
purposes !  And  yet,  surveying  the  quiet  valley  to- 
day, it  seems  as  though  there  were  no  memory  of 
suffering  or  sorrow  in  it  at  all. 


Dorsetshire  147 

We  climbed  the  down;  and  there  at  our  feet  the 
world  lay  like  a  map,  with  its  fields,  woods,  hamlets, 
and  church-towers,  the  great  rich  plain  rolling  to 
the  horizon,  till  it  was  lost  in  haze.  How  infinitely 
minute  and  unimportant  seemed  one's  own  life, 
one's  own  thoughts,  the  schemes  of  one  tiny  moving 
atom  on  the  broad  back  of  the  hills.  And  yet  my 
own  small  restless  identity  is  almost  the  only  thing 
in  the  world  of  which  I  am  assured! 

There  came  to  me  at  that  moment  a  thrill  of  the 
spirit  which  comes  but  rarelj^;  a  deep  hope,  the 
sense  of  a  secret  tying  very  near,  if  one  could  only 
grasp  it;  an  assurance  that  we  are  safe  and  secure 
in  the  hand  of  God,  and  a  certainty  that  there  is  a 
vast  reality  behind,  veiled  from  us  only  by  the 
shadows  of  fears,  ambitions,  and  desires.  And  the 
thought,  too,  came  that  all  the  tiny  human  beings 
that  move  about  their  tasks  in  the  plain  beneath — 
nay,  the  animals,  the  trees,  the  flowers,  every  blade 
of  grass,  every  pebble — each  has  its  place  in  the 
great  and  awful  mystery.  Then  came  the  sense  of 
the  vast  fellowship  of  created  things,  the  tender 
Fatherhood  of  the  God  who  made  us  all.  I  can 
hardly  put  the  thought  into  words;  but  it  was  one 
of  those  sudden  intuitions  that  seem  to  lie  deeper 
even  than  the  mind  and  the  soul,  a  message  from  the 
heart  of  the  world,  bidding  one  wait  and  wonder, 
rest  and  be  still. 


148  The  Thre^vd  of  Gold 


XXVI 

I  WILL  put  another  little  sketch  side  by  side  with 
the  last,  for  the  sake  of  contrast ;  I  think  it  is  hardly- 
possible  within  the  compass  of  a  few  days  to  have 
seen  two  scenes  of  such  minute  and  essential  differ- 
ence. At  Cerne  I  had  the  tranquil  loneliness  of  the 
country-side,  the  silent  valley,  the  long  faintty- 
tinted  lines  of  pasture,  space,  and  stillness ;  the  ham- 
lets nestled  am.ong  trees  in  the  dingles  of  the  down. 
To-day  I  went  south  along  a  dusty  road;  at  first 
there  were  quiet  ancient  sights  enough,  such  as  the 
huge  grass-grown  encampment  of  Maiden  Castle^ 
now  a  space  of  pasture,  but  still  guarded  by  vast 
ramparts  and  ditches,  dug  in  the  chalk,  and  for  a 
thousand  years  or  more  deserted.  The  downs, 
where  they  faced  the  sea,  were  dotted  ^vith  grassy 
barrows,  air-swept  and  silent.  AVe  topped  the  hill, 
and  in  a  moment  there  was  a  change;  through  the 
haze  we  saw  the  roofs  of  Weymouth  laid  out  like  a 
map  before  us,  with  the  smoke  drifting  west  from 
innumerable  chimneys;  in  the  harbour,  guarded  by 
the  slender  breakwaters,  floated  great  ironclads, 
black  and  sinister  bulks ;  and  beyond  them  frowned 
the  dark  front  of  Portland.  Very  soon  the  houses 
began  to  close  in  upon  the  road, — brick-built,  pre- 
tentious, bow-windowed  villas;  then  we  were  in  the 


Portland  149 

streets,  showing  a  wholesome  antiquity  in  the  broad- 
windowed  mansions  of  mellow  brick,  which  sprang 
into  life  w^hen  the  honest  king  George  III.  made  the 
quiet  port  fashionable  by  spending  his  simple  sum- 
mers there.  There  was  the  king's  lodging  itself, 
Gloucester  House,  now  embedded  in  a  hotel,  with 
the  big  pilastered  windows  of  its  saloons  giving  it  a 
faded  courtly  air.  Soon  we  were  by  the  quays,  with 
black  red-funnelled  steamers  unloading,  and  all  the 
quaint  and  pretty  bustle  of  a  port.  We  went  out 
to  a  promontory  guarded  by  an  old  stone  fort,  and 
watched  a  red  merchant  steamer  roll  merrily  in, 
blowing  a  loud  sea-horn.  Then  over  a  low- 
shouldered  ridge,  and  w^e  were  by  the  great  inner 
roads,  full  of  shipping;  we  sat  for  a  while  by  the 
melancholy  wells  of  an  ancient  Tudor  castle,  now 
crumbling  into  the  sea ;  and  then  across  the  narrow 
causeway  that  leads  on  to  Portland.  On  our  right 
rose  the  Chesil  Bank,  that  mysterious  mole  of 
orange  shingle,  which  the  sea,  for  some  strange  pur- 
pose of  its  own,  has  piled  up,  century  after  century, 
for  eighteen  miles  along  the  western  coast.  And 
then  the  grim  front  of  Portland  Island  itself  loomed 
out  above  us.  The  road  ran  up  steeply  among  the 
bluffs,  through  line  upon  line  of  grey-slated  houses ; 
to  the  left,  at  the  top  of  the  cliif ,  were  the  sunken 
lines  of  the  huge  fort,  with  the  long  slopes  of  its 
earthworks,  the  glacis  overgrown  with  grass,  and 


150  The  Thread  of  Gold 

the  guns  peeping  from  their  embrasures;  to  the 
left,  dipj)ing  to  the  south,  the  steep  grey  crags, 
curve  after  curve.  The  streets  were  ahve  with  an 
abundance  of  merry  young  sailors  and  soldiers, 
brisk,  handsome  boys,  with  the  quiet  air  of  dis- 
cipline that  converts  a  country  lout  into  a  self- 
respecting  citizen.  An  old  bronzed  sergeant  led  a 
child  with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  tried  to  obey 
her  shrill  directions  about  whirling  a  skipping-rope, 
so  that  she  might  skip  beside  him;  he  looked  at  us 
with  a  half-proud,  half-shamefaced  smile,  calling 
down  a  rebuke  for  his  inattention  from  the  girl. 

We  wound  slowly  up  the  steep  roads  smothered 
in  dust;  landwards  the  view  was  all  dro^\Tied  in  a 
pale  haze,  but  the  steep  grey  cliffs  by  Lulworth 
gleamed  with  a  tinge  of  gold  across  the  sea. 

At  the  top,  one  of  the  dreariest  landscapes  I 
have  ever  seen  met  the  sight.  The  island  lies,  so  to 
s^^eak,  like  a  stranded  whale,  the  great  head  and 
shoulders  northwards  to  the  land.  The  moment 
you  surmount  the  top,  the  huge,  flat  side  of  the 
monster  is  extended  before  you,  shelving  to  the  sea. 
Hardly  a  tree  grows  there;  there  is  nothing  but  a 
long  perspective  of  fields,  divided  here  and  there 
by  stone  walls,  with  scattered  grey  houses  at  inter- 
vals. There  is  not  a  feature  of  any  kind  on  which 
the  eye  can  rest.  In  the  foreground  the  earth  is  all 
tunnelled  and  tumbled;  quarries  stretched  in  every 


f 


Portland  151 

direction,  with  huge,  gaunt,  straddhng,  gallows- 
Hke  structures  emerging,  a  wheel  spinning  at  the 
top,  and  ropes  traveUing  into  the  abyss;  heaps  of 
grey  debris,  interspersed  with  stunted  grass,  huge 
excavations,  ugly  ravines  with  a  spout  of  grim 
stone  at  the  seaward  opening,  Kke  the  burroA\^ngs 
of  some  huge  mole.  The  placid  green  slopes  of  the 
fort  give  an  impression  of  secret  strength,  even 
grandeur.  Otherwise  it  is  but  a  ragged,  splashed 
aquarelle  of  grey  and  green.  Over  the  debris  ap- 
pear at  a  distance  the  blunt  ominous  chimneys  of 
the  convict  prison,  which  seems  to  put  the  finishing 
touch  on  the  forbidding  character  of  the  scene. 

To-day  the  landward  view  w^as  all  veiled  in  haze, 
which  seemed  to  shut  off  the  sad  island  from  the 
world.  On  a  clear  day,  no  doubt,  the  view  must  be 
full  of  grandeur,  the  inland  downs,  edged  every- 
where with  the  tall  scarped  cliffs,  headland  after 
headland,  with  the  long,  soft  line  of  the  Chesil 
Bank  below  them.  But  on  a  day  of  sea  mist,  it 
must  be,  I  felt,  one  of  the  saddest  and  most 
mournful  regions  in  the  world,  with  no  sound 
but  the  wail  of  gulls,  and  the  chafing  of  the  surge 
below. 

XXVII 

To-day  I  had  a  singular  pleasure  heightened  by 
an    intermingled    strangeness    and    even    terror — 


152  The  Thre.vd  of  Gold 

qualities  which  bring  out  the  quality  of  pleasure  in 
the  same  way  that  a  bourdon  in  a  pedal-point  pas- 
sage brings  out  the  quality  of  what  a  German 
would,  I  think,  call  the  over-work.  I  was  at 
Canterhury,  where  the  great  central  tower  is 
wTeathed  with  scaffolding,  and  has  a  dim,  blurred 
outline  from  a  distance,  as  though  it  were  being 
rapidly  shaken  to  and  fro.  I  found  a  friendly 
and  communicable  man  who  offered  to  take  me 
over  it ;  we  climbed  a  dizzy  little  w  inding  stair,  wuth 
bright  glimpses  at  intervals,  through  loopholes,  of 
sunlight  and  wheeling  birds;  then  we  crept  along 
the  top  of  a  vaulted  space  with  great  pockets  of 
darkness  to  right  and  left.  Soon  w^e  were  in  the 
gallery  of  the  lantern,  from  which  we  could  see  the 
little  people  crawling  on  the  floor  beneath,  like  slow 
insects.  And  then  w^e  mounted  a  short  ladder 
which  took  us  out  of  one  of  the  great  belfry  win- 
dows, on  to  the  lowest  of  the  planked  galleries. 
What  a  frail  and  precarious  structure  it  seemed: 
the  planks  bent  beneath  our  feet.  And  here  came 
the  first  exquisite  delight — that  of  being  close  to  the 
precipitous  face  of  the  tower,  of  seeing  the  carved 
work  which  had  never  been  seen  close  at  hand  since 
its  erection  except  by  the  jackdaw^s  and  pigeons.  I 
was  moved  and  touched  by  observing  how  fine  and 
delicate  all  the  sculpture  was.  There  were  rows 
and  rows  of  little  heraldic  devices,  which  from  be- 


Canterbury  Totter  153 

low  could  appear  only  as  tiny  fretted  points;  yet 
every  petal  of  rose  or  fleur-de-lys  vras  as  scrupu- 
lously and  cleanly  cut  as  if  it  had  been  meant  to  be 
seen  close  at  hand;  a  waste  of  power,  I  suppose; 
but  what  a  pretty  and  delicate  waste!  and  done,  I 
felt,  in  faithful  days,  when  the  carving  was  done  as 
much  to  delight,  if  possible,  the  eye  of  God,  as  to 
please  the  eye  of  man.  Higher  and  higher  we  went, 
till  at  last  we  reached  the  parapet.  And  then  by  a 
dizzy  perpendicular  ladder  to  which  I  committed 
myself  in  faith,  we  reached  a  little  platform  on  the 
very  top  of  one  of  the  pinnacles.  The  vane  had 
just  been  fixed,  and  the  stone  was  splashed  with  the 
oozing  solder.  And  now  came  the  delight  of  the 
huge  view  all  round :  the  wooded  heights,  the  rolling 
hills;  old  church  towers  rose  from  flowering  or- 
chards; a  mansion  peeped  through  immemorial 
trees;  and  far  to  the  north-east  we  could  see  the 
white  cliff  of  Pcgwell  Bay;  endeared  to  me  through 
the  beautiful  picture  by  Dyce,  where  the  pale  crags 
rise  from  the  reefs  green  with  untorn  weeds.  There 
on  the  horizon  I  could  see  shadowy  sails  on  the 
steely  sea-line. 

Near  at  hand  there  were  the  streets,  and  then 
the  Close,  with  its  comfortable  canonical  houses, 
in  green  trim  gardens,  spread  out  like  a  map  at 
my  feet.  We  looked  dov/n  on  to  the  tops  of  tall 
elm-trees,  and  saw  the  rooks  walking  and  sitting 


154  The  Thread  of  Gold 

on  the  grey-splashed  platforms  of  twigs,  that 
swayed  horribly  in  the  breeze.  It  was  pleasant  to 
see,  as  I  did,  the  tiny  figure  of  my  reverend  host 
walking,  a  dot  of  black,  in  his  garden  beneath,  read- 
ing in  a  book.  The  long  grey-leaded  roof  ran 
broad  and  straight,  a  hundred  feet  below.  One  felt 
for  a  moment  as  a  God  might  feel,  looking  on  a 
corner  of  his  created  world,  and  seeing  that  it  was 
good.  One  seemed  to  have  surmounted  the  earth, 
and  to  watch  the  little  creeping  orbits  of  men  with 
a  benevolent  compassion,  perceiving  how  strait  they 
were.  The  large  air  hissed  briskly  in  the  pinnacles, 
and  roared  through  the  belfry  windows  beneath. 
I  cannot  describe  the  eager  exhilaration  which  filled 
me ;  but  I  guessed  that  the  impulse  which  bids  men 
fling  themselves  from  such  heights  is  not  a  morbid 
prepossession,  not  a  physical  dizziness,  but  an  in- 
temperate and  overwhelming  joy.  It  seems  at 
such  a  moment  so  easy  to  float  and  swim  through 
the  viewless  air,  as  if  one  would  be  borne  up  on  the 
wings  of  angels. 

But,  alas!  the  hour  w^arned  us  to  return.  On 
our  way  down  we  disturbed  a  peevish  jackdaw 
from  her  nest;  she  had  dragged  up  to  that  intoler- 
able height  a  pile  of  boughs  that  would  have  made 
a  dozen  nests;  she  had  interwoven  for  the  cup  to 
hold  her  eggs  a  number  of  strips  of  purloined  can- 
vas.    There  lay  the  three  speckled  eggs,  the  hope 


Prayer  155 

of  the  race,  while  the  chiding  mother  stood  on  a 
pinnacle  hard  by,  waiting  for  the  intruder  to 
begone. 

A  strange  sense  of  humiliation  and  smallness 
came  upon  me  as  we  emerged  at  last  into  the  nave ; 
the  people  that  had  seemed  so  small  and  insignifi- 
cant, were,  alas !  as  big  and  as  important  as  myself ; 
I  felt  as  an  exile  from  the  porches  of  heaven,  a 
fallen  spirit. 

XXVIII 

I  AM  often  baffled  when  I  try  to  think  what 
prayer  is ;  if  our  thoughts  do  indeed  lie  open  before 
the  eyes  of  the  Father,  like  a  little  clear  globe  of 
water  which  a  man  may  hold  in  his  hand — and  I  am 
sure  they  do — it  certainly  seems  hardly  worth  while 
to  put  those  desires  into  words.  IMany  good 
Christians  seem  to  me  to  conceive  of  prayers  partly 
as  a  kind  of  tribute  they  are  bound  to  pay,  and 
partly  as  requests  that  are  almost  certain  to  be  re- 
fused. With  such  people  religion,  then,  means 
the  effort  which  they  make  to  trust  a  Father  who 
hears  prayers,  and  very  seldom  answers  them. 
But  this  does  not  seem  to  be  a  very  reasonable 
attitude. 

I  confess  that  liturgical  prayer  does  not  very 
much  appeal  to  me.     It  does  not  seem  to  me  to 


156  The  Thre^u)  of  Gold 

correspond  to  any  particular  need  in  my  mind.  It 
seems  to  me  to  sacrifice  almost  all  the  things  that  I 
mean  by  prayer — the  sustained  intention  of  soul, 
the  laying  of  one's  own  problems  before  the  Father, 
the  expression  of  one's  hopes  for  others,  the  desire 
that  the  sorrows  of  the  world  should  be  lightened. 
Of  course,  a  liturgy  touches  these  thoughts  at  many 
points;  but  the  exercise  of  one's  own  liberty  of  as- 
piration and  wonder,  the  pursuing  of  a  train  of 
thought,  the  quiet  dwelling  upon  mysteries,  are  all 
lost  if  one  has  to  stumble  and  run  in  a  prescribed 
track.  To  follow  a  service  with  uplifted  attention 
requires  more  mental  agility  than  I  possess;  point 
after  point  is  raised,  and  yet,  if  one  pauses  to  medi- 
tate, to  wonder,  to  aspire,  one  is  lost,  and  misses  the 
thread  of  the  service.  I  suppose  that  there  is  or 
ought  to  be  something  in  the  united  act  of  interces- 
sion. But  I  dislike  all  public  meetings,  and  think 
them  a  waste  of  time.  I  should  make  an  exception 
in  favour  of  the  Sacrament,  but  the  rapid  disap- 
pearance of  the  majority  of  a  congregation  before 
the  solemn  act  seems  to  me  to  destroy  the  sense  of 
unity  with  singular  rapidity.  As  to  the  old  theory 
that  God  requires  of  his  followers  that  they  should 
unite  at  intervals  in  presenting  him  with  a  certain 
amount  of  complimentary  effusion,  I  cannot  even 
approach  the  idea.  The  holiest,  simplest,  most 
benevolent  being  of  whom  I  can  conceive  would  be 


Prayee  157 

inexpressibly  pained  and  distressed  by  such  an  in- 
tention on  the  part  of  the  objects  of  his  care;  and  to 
conceive  of  God  as  greedy  of  recognition  seems 
to  me  to  be  one  of  the  conceptions  which  insult  the 
dignity  of  the  soul. 

I  have  heard  lately  one  or  two  medieeval  stories 
which  illustrate  what  I  mean.  There  is  a  storj"  of 
a  pious  monk,  who,  worn  out  by  long  vigils,  fell 
asleep,  as  he  was  saying  his  prayers  before  a  cruci- 
fix. He  was  awakened  by  a  buffet  on  the  head, 
and  heard  a  stern  voice  sajdng,  "  Is  this  an  oratory 
or  a  dormitory? "  I  cannot  conceive  of  any  story 
more  grotesque!}^  human  than  the  above,  or  more 
out  of  keeping  with  one's  best  thoughts  about  God. 
Again,  there  is  a  story  which  is  told,  I  think,  of  one 
of  the  first  monasteries  of  the  Benedictine  order. 
One  of  the  monks  was  a  laj^  brother,  who  had  many 
little  menial  tasks  to  fulfil;  he  was  a  well-meaning 
man,  but  extremely  forgetful,  and  he  was  often 
forced  to  retire  from  some  service  in  which  he  was 
taking  part,  because  he  had  forgotten  to  put  the 
vegetables  on  to  boil,  or  omitted  other  duties  which 
would  lead  to  the  discomfort  of  the  brethren.  An- 
other monk,  who  was  fond  of  more  secular  occupa- 
tions, such  as  wood-carving  and  garden-work,  and 
not  at  all  attached  to  habits  of  prayer,  seeing  this, 
thought  that  he  would  do  the  same ;  and  he  too  used 
to  slip  away  from  a  service,  in  order  to  return  to  the 


158  The  Thread  of  Gold 

business  that  he  loved  better.  The  Prior  of  the 
monastery,  an  anxious,  humble  man,  was  at  a  loss 
how  to  act;  so  he  called  in  a  very  holy  hermit,  who 
lived  in  a  cell  hard  by,  that  he  might  have  the  bene- 
fit of  his  advice.  The  hermit  came  and  attended  an 
Office.  Presently  the  lay  brother  rose  from  his 
knees  and  slii:)i3ed  out.  The  hermit  looked  up,  fol- 
lowed him  with  his  eyes,  and  appeared  to  be  greatly 
moved.  But  he  took  no  action,  and  only  addressed 
himself  more  assiduously  to  his  prayers.  Shortly 
after,  the  other  brother  rose  and  went  out.  The 
hermit  looked  up,  and  seeing  him  go,  rose  too,  and 
followed  him  to  the  door,  where  he  fetched  him  a 
great  blow  upon  the  head  that  nearly  brought  him 
to  the  ground.  Thereupon  the  stricken  man  went 
humbly  back  to  his  place  and  addressed  himself  to 
his  prayers ;  and  the  hermit  did  the  same. 

The  Office  was  soon  over,  and  the  hermit  went  to 
the  Prior's  room  to  talk  the  matter  over.  The  her- 
mit said:  "  I  bore  in  mj^  mind  what  you  told  me, 
dear  Father,  and  when  I  saw  one  of  the  brethren 
rise  from  his  prayers,  I  asked  God  to  show  me  what 
I  should  do ;  but  I  saw  a  wonderful  thing ;  there  was 
a  shining  figure  with  our  brother,  his  hand  upon  the 
other's  sleeve;  and  this  fair  comrade,  I  have  no 
doubt,  was  an  angel  of  God,  that  led  the  brother 
forth,  that  he  might  be  about  his  Father's  business. 
So  I  prayed  the  more  earnestly.     But  when  our 


Prayer  159 

other  Dlvjther  rose,  I  looked  up;  and  I  saw  that  he 
had  been  plucked  by  the  sleeve  by  a  little  naked, 
comely  boy,  very  swarthy  of  hue,  that  I  saw  had  no 
business  among  our  holy  prayers;  he  wore  a  mock- 
ing smile  on  his  face,  as  though  he  prevailed  in  evil. 
So  I  rose  and  followed;  and  just  as  they  came  to 
the  door,  I  aimed  a  shrewd  blow,  for  it  was  told  me 
what  to  do,  at  the  boy,  and  struck  him  on  the  head, 
so  that  he  fell  to  the  ground,  and  j)resently  went  to 
his  own  place;  and  then  our  brother  came  back  to 
his  prayers." 

The  Prior  mused  a  little  over  this  wonder,  and 
then  he  said,  smiling:  "  It  seemed  to  me  that  it  was 
our  brother  that  was  smitten."  "  Very  like,"  said 
the  hermit,  "  for  the  two  were  close  together,  and  I 
think  the  boy  was  whispering  in  the  brother's  ear; 
but  give  God  the  glory;  for  the  dear  brother  will 
not  offend  again." 

There  is  an  abundance  of  truth  in  this  whole- 
some ancient  tale;  but  I  will  not  draw  the  morals 
out  here.  All  I  will  say  is  that  the  old  theory  of 
prayer,  simple  and  childlike  as  it  is,  seems  to  have 
a  curious  vitality  even  nowadays.  It  presupposes 
that  the  act  of  prayer  is  in  itself  pleasing  to  God; 
and  that  is  what  I  am  not  satisfied  of. 

That  theory  seems  to  prevail  even  more  strongly 
in  the  Roman  Church  of  to-daj^  than  in  our  own. 
The  Roman  priest  is  not  a  man  occupied  primarily 


160  The  Thread  of  Gold 

with  pastoral  duties;  his  business  is  the  business  of 
prayer.  To  neglect  his  daily  offices  is  a  mortal  sin, 
and  when  he  has  said  them,  his  priestly  duty  is  at 
an  end.  This  does  not  seem  to  me  to  bear  any  rela- 
tion to  the  theory  of  prayer  as  enunciated  in  the 
Gospel.  There  the  practice  of  constant  and  secret 
prayer,  of  a  direct  and  informal  kind,  is  enjoined 
upon  all  followers  of  Chi'ist ;  but  Our  Lord  seems  to 
be  very  hard  upon  the  lengthy  and  public  prayers 
of  the  Pharisees,  and  indeed  against  all  formality 
in  the  matter  at  all.  The  only  united  service  that 
he  enjoined  upon  his  followers  was  the  Sacrament 
of  the  common  meal ;  and  I  confess  that  the  saying 
of  formal  liturgies  in  an  ornate  building  seems  to 
me  to  be  a  practice  which  has  drifted  very  far  away 
from  the  simplicity  of  individual  religion  which 
Christ  aj)pears  to  have  aimed  at. 

]\Iy  own  feeling  about  prayer  is  that  it  should 
not  be  relegated  to  certain  seasons,  or  attended 
by  certain  postures,  or  even  couched  in  definite 
language;  it  should  rather  be  a  constant  uplifting 
of  the  heart,  a  stretching  out  of  the  hands  to  God. 
I  do  not  think  we  should  ask  for  definite  things  that 
we  desire;  I  am  sure  that  our  definite  desires,  our 
fears,  our  plans,  our  schemes,  the  hope  that  visits 
one  a  hundred  times  a  day,  our  cravings  for  wealth, 
our  success  or  influence,  are  as  easily  read  by  God, 
as  a  man  can  discern  the  tiny  atoms  and  filaments 


Prayer  161 

that  swim  in  his  crystal  globe.  But  I  think  we  may 
ask  to  be  led,  to  be  guided,  to  be  helped;  we  may 
put  our  anxious  little  decisions  before  God ;  we  may 
ask  for  strength  to  fulfil  hard  duties;  we  may  put 
our  desires  for  others'  happiness,  our  hopes  for  our 
country,  our  compassion  for  sorrowing  or  afflicted 
persons,  our  horror  of  cruelty  and  tyranny  before 
him;  and  here  I  believe  lies  the  force  of  prayer; 
that  by  practising  this  sense  of  aspiration  in  his 
presence,  we  gain  a  strength  to  do  our  own  part. 
If  we  abstain  from  prayer,  if  w^e  limit  our  prayers 
to  our  own  small  desires,  we  grow,  I  know,  petty 
and  self-absorbed  and  feeble.  We  can  leave  the 
fulfilment  of  our  concrete  aims  to  God;  but  we 
ought  to  be  always  stretching  out  our  hands  and 
opening  our  hearts  to  the  high  and  gracious  mys- 
teries that  lie  all  about  us. 

A  friend  of  mine  told  me  that  a  little  Russian 
peasant,  whom  he  had  visited  often  in  a  military 
hospital,  told  him,  at  their  last  interview,  that  he 
would  tell  him  a  prayer  that  was  always  effective, 
and  had  never  failed  of  being  answered.  "  But 
you  must  not  use  it,"  he  said,  "  unless  you  are  in  a 
great  difficulty,  and  there  seems  no  waj^  out."  The 
prayer  w^hich  he  then  repeated  was  this :  "  Lord, 
remember  King  David,  and  all  his  grace." 

I  have  never  tested  the  efficacy  of  this  prayer,  but 
I  have  a  thousand  times  tested  the  efficacy  of  sud- 


162  The  Thread  of  Gold 

den  prayer  in  moments  of  difficulty,  when  con- 
fronted with  a  Httle  temptation,  when  overwhehned 
with  irritation,  before  an  anxious  interview,  before 
writing  a  difficult  passage.  How  often  has  the 
temptation  floated  away,  the  irritation  mastered 
itself,  the  right  word  been  said,  the  right  sentence 
written!  To  do  all  we  are  capable  of,  and  then  to 
commit  the  matter  to  the  hand  of  the  Father,  that  is 
the  best  that  we  can  do. 

Of  course,  I  am  well  aware  that  there  are  many 
who  find  this  kind  of  help  in  liturgical  prayer;  and 
I  am  thankful  that  it  is  so.  But  for  myself,  I  can 
only  say  that  as  long  as  I  pursued  the  customary 
path,  and  confined  myself  to  fixed  moments  of 
prayer,  I  gained  very  little  benefit.  I  do  not  forego 
the  practice  of  hturgical  attendance  even  now;  for 
a  solemn  service,  with  all  the  majesty  of  an  old  and 
beautiful  building  full  of  countless  associations, 
with  all  the  resources  of  musical  sound  and  cere- 
monial movement,  does  uplift  and  rejoice  the  soul. 
And  even  with  simpler  services,  there  is  often  some- 
thing vaguely  sustaining  and  tranquillising  in  the 
act.  But  the  deeper  secret  lies  in  the  fact  that 
prayer  is  an  attitude  of  soul,  and  not  a  ceremony; 
that  it  is  an  individual  mystery,  and  not  a  piece  of 
venerable  pomp.  I  would  have  every  one  adopt 
his  own  method  in  the  matter.  I  would  not  for  an 
instant  discourage  those  who  find  that  hturgical 


The  Death-Bed  of  Jacob  163 

usage  uplifts  them ;  but  neither  would  I  have  those 
to  be  discouraged  who  find  that  it  has  no  meaning 
for  them.  The  secret  lies  in  the  fact  that  our  aim 
should  be  a  relation  with  the  Father,  a  frank  and 
reverent  confidence,  a  humble  waiting  upon  God. 
That  the  Father  loves  all  his  children  with  an  equal 
love  I  doubt  not.  But  he  is  nearest  to  those  who 
turn  to  him  at  every  moment,  and  speak  to  him  with 
a  quiet  trustfulness.  He  alone  knows  why  he  has 
set  us  in  the  middle  of  such  a  bewildering  world, 
where  joy  and  sorrow,  darkness  and  light,  are  so 
strangely  intermingled ;  and  all  that  we  can  do  is  to 
follow  wisely  and  patiently  such  cases  as  he  gives 
us,  into  the  cloudy  darkness  in  which  he  seems  to 
dwell. 

XXIX 

I  HEARD  read  the  other  morning.  In  a  quiet  house- 
chapel,  a  chapter  which  has  always  seemed  to  me 
one  of  the  most  perfectly  beautiful  things  in  the 
Bible.  And  as  it  was  read,  I  felt,  what  is  always 
a  test  of  the  highest  kind  of  beauty,  that  I  had  never 
known  before  how  perfect  it  was.  It  was  the  48th 
chapter  of  Genesis,  the  blessing  of  Ephraim  and 
Manasses.  Jacob,  feeble  and  spent,  is  lying  in  the 
quiet,  tranquil  passiveness  of  old  age,  with  bygone 
things  passing  like  dreams  before  the  inner  eye  of 


164  The  Thread  of  Gold 

the  spirit — in  that  mood,  I  think,  when  one  hardly 
knows  where  the  imagined  begins  or  the  real  ends. 
He  is  told  that  his  son  Joseph  is  coming,  and  he 
strengthens  himself  for  an  effort.  Joseph  enters, 
and,  in  a  strain  of  high  solemnity,  Jacob  speaks  of 
the  promise  made  long  before  on  the  stone-strewn 
hills  of  Bethel,  and  its  fulfilment;  but  even  so  he 
seems  to  wander  in  his  thought,  the  recollection  of 
his  Rachel  comes  over  him,  and  he  cannot  forbear 
to  speak  of  her:  "And  as  for  me,  when  I  came  from 
Padan,  Rachel  died  hy  me  in  the  land  of  Canaan, 
in  the  way,  and  when  yet  there  was  hut  a  little  way 
to  come  unto  Ephrath;  and  I  buried  her  there  in  the 
way  of  Ejyhrath;  the  same  is  Bethlehem" 

Could  there  be  anything  more  human,  more  ten- 
der than  that  ?  The  memory  of  the  sad  day  of  loss 
and  mouring,  and  then  the  gentle,  aged  precision 
about  names  and  places,  the  details  that  add  no- 
thing, and  yet  are  so  natural,  so  sweet  an  echo  of 
the  old  tale,  the  symbols  of  the  story,  that  stand 
for  so  much  and  mean  so  little,—'^  the  same  is  Beth- 
lehem." Who  has  not  heard  an  old  man  thus  trac- 
ing out  the  particulars  of  some  remote  recollected 
incident,  dwelling  for  the  hundredth  time  on  the 
unimportant  detail,  the  side-issue,  so  needlessly 
anxious  to  avoid  confusion,  so  bent  on  useless 
accuracy. 

Then,  as  he  wanders  thus,  he  becomes  aware  of 


The  Death-Bed  of  Jacob  165 

the  two  boys,  standing  in  wonder  and  awe  beside 
him;  and  even  so  he  cannot  at  once  piece  together 
the  facts,  but  asks,  wdth  a  sudden  curiosity,  "  Who 
are  these?  "  Then  it  is  explained  very  gently  by 
the  dear  son  whom  he  had  lost,  and  who  stands 
for  a  parable  of  tranquil  wisdom  and  loyal  love. 
The  old  man  kisses  and  embraces  the  boys,  and  with 
a  full  heart  says,  "  I  had  not  thought  to  see  thy 
face;  and  lo,  God  hath  showed  me  also  thy  seed  J" 
And  at  this  Joseph  can  bear  it  no  more,  puts  the 
boys  forward,  who  seem  to  be  clinging  shyly  to 
him,  and  bows  himself  down  with  his  face  to  the 
earth,  in  a  passion  of  grief  and  awe. 

And  then  the  old  man  will  not  bless  them  as  in- 
tended, but  gives  the  richer  blessing  to  the  younger ; 
with  those  words  which  haunt  the  memory  and  sink 
into  the  heart:  ''The  angel  which  redeemed  me 
from  all  evil,  bless  the  lads/'  And  Joseph  is  moved 
by  what  he  thinks  to  be  a  mistake,  and  would  cor- 
rect it,  so  as  to  give  the  larger  blessing  to  his  first- 
born. But  Jacob  refuses.  ''  I  know  it,  my  son,  I 
know  it  .  .  .  he  also  shall  he  great,  hut  truly 
his  younger  hrother  shall  he  greater  than  he/' 

And  so  he  adds  a  further  blessing ;  and  even  then, 
at  that  deep  moment,  the  old  man  cannot  refrain 
from  one  flash  of  pride  in  his  old  prowess,  and 
speaks,  in  his  closing  words,  of  the  inheritance  he 
won  from  the  Amorite  with  his  sword  and  bow ;  and 


166  The  Thread  of  Gold 

this  is  all  the  more  human  because  there  is  no  trace 
in  the  records  of  his  ever  having  done  anything  of 
the  kind.  He  seems  to  have  been  always  a  man  of 
peace.  And  so  the  sweet  story  remains  human  to 
the  very  end.  I  care  very  httle  what  the  critics 
may  have  to  say  on  the  matter.  They  may  call  it 
legendary  if  they  will,  they  may  say  that  it  is  the 
work  of  an  Ephraimite  scribe,  bent  on  consecrating 
the  Ephraimite  supremacy  by  the  aid  of  tradition. 
But  the  incident  appears  to  me  to  be  of  a  reality,  a 
force,  a  tenderness,  that  is  above  historical  criticism. 
Whatever  else  may  be  true,  there  is  a  breathing 
reality  in  the  picture  of  the  old  weak  patriarch  mak- 
ing his  last  conscious  effort;  Joseph,  that  wise  and 
prudent  servant,  whose  activities  have  never 
clouded  his  clear  natural  affections;  the  boys,  the 
mute  and  awed  actors  in  the  scene,  not  made  to 
utter  any  precocious  phrases,  and  yet  centring  the 
tenderness  of  hope  and  joy  upon  themselves.  If  it 
is  art,  it  is  the  perfection  of  art,  which  touches  the 
very  heart-strings  into  a  passion  of  sweetness  and 
wonder. 

Compare  this  ancient  story  with  other  achieve- 
ments of  the  human  mind  and  soul:  with  Homer, 
with  Virgil,  with  Shakespeare.  I  think  they  pale 
beside  it,  because  with  no  sense  of  effort  or  construc- 
tion, with  all  the  homely  air  of  a  simple  record, 
the  perfectly  natural,  the  perfectly  pathetic,  the 


The  Sea  of  Galilee  167 

perfectly  beautiful,  Is  here  achieved.  There  is  no 
painting  of  effects,  no  dwelling  on  accessories,  no 
consciousness  of  beauty;  and  yet  the  heart  is  fed, 
the  imagination  touched,  the  spirit  satisfied.  For 
here  one  has  set  foot  in  the  very  shrine  of  truth  and 
beauty,  and  the  wise  hand  that  wrote  it  has  just 
opened  the  door  of  the  heart,  and  stands  back, 
claiming  no  reward,  desiring  no  praise. 

XXX 

I  HAVE  often  thought  that  the  last  chapter  of  St. 
John's  Gospel  is  one  of  the  most  bewildering  and 
enchanting  pieces  of  literature  I  know.  I  suppose 
Robert  Browning  must  have  thought  so,  because 
he  makes  the  reading  of  it,  in  that  odd  rich  poem, 
Bishop  Blougraiiis  Apology,  the  sign,  together 
with  testing  a  plough,  of  a  man's  conversion,  from 
the  unreal  life  of  talk  and  words,  to  the  realities  of 
life;  though  I  have  never  divined  why  he  used  this 
particular  chapter  as  a  symbol;  and  indeed  I  hope 
no  one  will  ever  make  it  clear  to  me,  though  I  dare- 
say the  connection  is  plain  enough. 

It  is  bewildering,  because  it  is  a  postscript,  added, 
with  a  singular  artlessness,  after  the  Gospel  has 
come  to  a  full  close.  Perhaps  St.  John  did  not 
even  write  it,  though  the  pretty  childlike  conclusion 
about  the  world  itself  not  being  able  to  contain  the 


168  The  Thread  of  Gold 

books  that  might  be  written  about  Christ  has  al- 
ways seemed  to  me  to  be  in  his  spirit,  the  words  of  a 
very  simple-minded  and  aged  man.  It  is  enchant- 
ing, because  it  contains  two  of  the  most  beautiful 
episodes  in  the  whole  of  the  Gospel  History,  the 
charge  to  St.  Peter  to  feed  the  lambs  and  sheep  of 
the  fold,  where  one  of  the  most  delicate  nuances  of 
language  is  lost  in  the  English  translation,  and  the 
appearance  of  Jesus  beside  the  sea  of  Galilee.  I 
must  not  here  discuss  the  story  of  the  charge  to  St. 
Peter,  though  I  once  heard  it  read,  with  exquisite 
pathos,  when  an  archbishop  of  Canterbury  was  be- 
ing enthroned  with  all  the  pomp  and  circumstance 
of  ecclesiastical  ceremony,  in  such  a  way  that  it 
brought  out,  by  a  flash  of  revelation,  the  true  spirit 
of  the  scene  we  were  attending;  we  were  simple 
Christians,  it  seemed,  assembled  only  to  set  a  shep- 
herd over  a  fold,  that  he  might  lead  a  flock  in  green 
pastures  and  by  waters  of  comfort. 

But  a  man  must  not  tell  two  tales  at  once,  or 
he  loses  the  savour  of  both.  Let  us  take  the  other 
story. 

The  dreadful  incidents  of  the  Passion  are  over; 
the  shame,  the  horror,  the  humiliation,  the  disap- 
pointment. The  hearts  of  the  Apostles  must  have 
been  sore  indeed  at  the  thought  that  they  had  de- 
serted their  friend  and  JMaster.  Then  followed  the 
mysterious   incidents   of   the   Resurrection,    about 


The  Sea  of  Galilee  169 

which  I  will  only  say  that  it  is  plain  from  the  docu- 
ments, if  they  are  accepted  as  a  record  at  all,  from 
the  astonishing  change  which  seems  to  have  passed 
over  the  Apostles,  converting  their  timid  faithful- 
ness into  a  tranquil  boldness,  that  they,  at  all  events, 
believed  that  some  incredibly  momentous  thing  had 
happened,  and  that  their  INIaster  was  among  them 
again,  returning  through  the  gates  of  Death. 

They  go  back,  like  men  wearied  of  inaction,  tired 
of  agitated  thought,  to  their  homely  trade.  All 
night  the  boat  swaj^s  in  the  quiet  tide,  but  they  catch 
nothing.  Then,  as  the  morning  begins  to  come 
in  about  the  promontories  and  shores  of  the  lake, 
they  see  the  figure  of  one  moving  on  the  bank,  who 
hails  them  with  a  familiar  heartiness,  as  a  man 
might  do  who  had  to  provide  for  unexpected  guests, 
and  had  nothing  to  give  them  to  eat.  I  fancy,  I 
know  not  whether  rightly,  that  they  see  in  him  a 
purchaser,  and  answer  sullenly  that  they  have 
nothing  to  sell.  Then  follows  a  direction,  which 
they  obey,  to  cast  the  net  on  the  right  side  of  the 
boat.  Perhaps  they  thought  the  stranger — for  it 
is  clear  that  as  yet  they  had  no  suspicion  of  his 
identity — had  seen  some  sign  of  a  moving  shoal 
which  had  escaped  them.  They  secure  a  great  haul 
of  fish.  Then  John  has  an  inkling  of  the  truth; 
and  I  know  no  words  Avhich  thrill  me  more  strangely 
than  the  simple  expression  that  bursts  from  his  lips : 


170  The  Thread  of  Golu 

It  is  the  Lord/  With  characteristic  impetuosity 
Peter  leaps  into  the  water,  and  wades  or  swims 
ashore. 

And  then  comes  another  of  the  surprising  touches 
of  the  story.  As  a  mother  might  tenderly  provide 
a  meal  for  her  husband  and  sons  who  have  been  out 
all  night,  they  find  that  their  visitant  has  made  and 
lit  a  little  fire,  and  is  broiling  fish,  how  obtained  one 
knows  not ;  then  the  haul  is  dragged  ashore,  the  big 
shoal  leaping  in  the  net ;  and  then  follows  the  simple 
invitation  and  the  distribution  of  the  food.  It 
seems  as  though  that  memorable  meal,  by  the  shore 
of  the  lake,  with  the  fresh  brightness  of  the  morning 
breaking  all  about  them  must  have  been  partaken 
of  in  silence ;  one  can  almost  hear  the  soft  crackling 
of  the  fire,  and  the  waves  breaking  on  the  shingle. 
They  dared  not  ask  him  who  he  was:  they  knew; 
and  yet,  considering  that  they  had  only  parted 
from  him  a  few  days  before,  the  narrative  implies 
that  some  mysterious  change  must  have  passed  over 
him.  Perhaps  they  were  wondering,  as  we  may 
wonder,  how  he  was  spending  those  days.  He  was 
seen  only  in  sudden  and  unexpected  glimpses; 
where  was  he  living,  what  was  he  doing  through 
those  long  nights  and  days  in  which  they  saw  him 
not?  I  can  only  say  that  for  me  a  deep  mystery 
broods  over  the  record.  The  glimpses  of  him,  and 
even  more  his  absences,  seem  to  me  to  transcend  the 


The  Apocalypse  171 

powers  of  human  invention.  That  these  men  hved, 
that  they  believed  they  saw  the  Lord,  seems  to  me 
the  only  possible  explanation,  though  I  admit  to 
the  full  the  baffling  mystery  of  it  all. 

And  then  the  scene  closes  with  absolute  sudden- 
ness ;  there  is  no  attempt  to  describe,  to  amplify,  to 
analyse.  There  follows  the  charge  to  Peter,  the 
strange  prophecy  of  his  death,  and  the  still  stranger 
repression  of  curiosity  as  to  what  should  be  the  fate 
of  St.  John. 

But  the  whole  incident,  coming  to  us  as  it  does 
out  of  the  hidden  ancient  world,  defying  investiga- 
tion, provoking  the  deepest  wonder,  remains  as 
faint  and  sweet  as  the  incense  of  the  morning,  as 
the  cool  breeze  that  played  about  the  weary  brows 
of  the  sleepless  fishermen,  and  stirred  the  long  rip- 
ple of  the  clear  lake. 

XXXI 

I  THINK  that  there  are  few  verses  of  the  Bible 
that  give  one  a  more  sudden  and  startling  thrill 
than  the  verse  at  the  beginning  of  the  viiith  chapter 
of  the  Revelation.  And  when  he  had  oijened  the 
seventh  seal  there  was  silence  in  heaven  about  the 
space  of  half  an  hour.  The  very  simplicity  of  the 
words,  the  homely  note  of  specified  time,  is  in  itself 
deeply  impressive.     But  further,  it  gives  the  dim 


172  The  Thread  of  Gold 

sense  of  some  awful  and  unseen  preparation  going 
forward,  a  period  allowed  in  which  those  that  stood 
by,  august  and  majestic  as  they;  were,  should  collect 
their  courage,  should  make  themselves  ready  with 
bated  breath  for  some  dire  pageant.  Up  to  that 
moment  the  vision  had  followed  hard  on  the  open- 
ing of  each  seal.  Upon  the  opening  of  the  first, 
had  resounded  a  peal  of  thunder,  and  the  voice  of 
the  first  beast  had  called  the  awestruck  ej^es  and  the 
failing  heart  to  look  upon  the  sight :  Come  and  see! 
Then  the  white  horse  Avith  the  crowned  conqueror 
had  ridden  joyfully  forth.  At  the  opening  of  the 
second  seal,  had  sprung  forth  the  red  horse,  and  the 
rider  with  the  great  sword.  When  the  third  was 
opened,  the  black  horse  had  gone  forth,  the  rider 
bearing  the  balances;  and  then  had  followed  the 
strange  and  naive  charge  by  the  unknown  voice, 
which  gives  one  so  strong  a  sense  that  the  vision  was 
being  faithfully  recorded  rather  than  originated, 
the  voice  that  quoted  a  price  for  the  grain  of  wheat 
and  barley,  and  directed  the  protection  of  the  vine- 
yard and  olive-yard.  This  homely  reference  to  the 
simple  food  of  earth  keeps  the  mind  intent  upon  the 
actual  realities  and  needs  of  life  in  the  midst  of 
these  bewildering  sights.  Then  at  the  fourth  open- 
ing, the  pale  horse,  bestridden  by  Death,  went 
mournfully  abroad.  At  the  fifth  seal,  the  crowded 
souls  beneath  the  altar  cry  out  for  restlessness ;  they 


The  Apocalypse  173 

are  clothed  in  white  robes,  and  bidden  to  be  patient 
for  a  while.  Then,  at  the  sixth  seal,  falls  the  earth- 
quake, the  confusion  of  nature,  the  dismay  of  men, 
before  the  terror  of  the  anger  of  God ;  and  the  very 
words  the  wrath  of  the  Lamb,  have  a  marvellous 
significance;  the  wrath  of  the  Most  jMerciful,  the 
wrath  of  one  whose  very  sj^mbol  is  that  of  a  blithe 
and  meek  innocence.  Then  the  earth  is  guarded 
from  harm,  and  the  faithful  are  sealed ;  and  in  words 
of  the  sublimest  pathos,  the  end  of  pain  and  sorrov/ 
is  proclaimed,  and  the  promise  that  the  redeemed 
shall  be  fed  and  led  forth  by  fountains  of  living  wa- 
ters. And  then,  at  the  verj^  moment  of  calm  and 
peace,  the  seventh  seal  is  opened,— and  nothing  fol- 
lows !  the  very  angels  of  heaven  seem  to  stand  Avith 
closed  eyes,  compressed  lips,  and  beating  heart, 
waiting  for  what  shall  be. 

And  then  at  last  the  visions  come  crowding  be- 
fore the  gaze  again — the  seven  trumpets  are 
sounded,  the  bitter,  burning  stars  fall,  the  locusts 
swarm  out  from  the  smoking  pit,  and  death  and  woe 
begin  their  work;  till  at  last  the  book  is  delivered 
to  the  prophet,  and  his  heart  is  filled  with  the  sweet- 
ness of  the  truth. 

I  have  no  desire  to  trace  the  precise  significance 
of  these  things.  I  do  not  wish  that  these  tapestries 
of  wrought  mysteries  should  be  suspended  upon  the 
walls  of  history.     I  do  not  think  that  they  can  be  so 


174  The  Thread  of  Gold 

suspended;  nor  have  I  the  least  hope  that  these 
strange  sights,  so  full  both  of  brightness  and  of 
horror,  should  ever  be  seen  by  mortal  eye.  But 
that  a  human  soul  should  have  lost  itself  in  these 
august  dreams,  that  the  book  of  visions  should  have 
been  thus  strangely  guarded  through  the  ages,  and 
at  last,  clothed  in  the  sweet  cadences  of  our  English 
tongue,  should  be  read  in  our  ears,  till  the  words  are 
soaked  through  and  through  with  rich  wonder  and 
tender  associations — that  is,  I  think,  a  very  wonder- 
ful and  divine  thing.  The  lives  of  all  men  that  have 
an  inner  eye  for  beauty  are  full  of  such  mysteries, 
and  surely  there  is  no  one,  of  those  that  strive  to 
pierce  below  the  dark  experiences  of  life,  who  is  not 
aware,  as  he  reckons  back  the  days  of  his  life,  of 
hours  when  the  seals  of  the  book  have  been  opened. 
It  has  been  so,  I  know,  in  my  own  life.  Some- 
times, at  the  rending  of  the  seal,  a  gracious  thing 
has  gone  forth,  bearing  victory  and  prosperity. 
Sometimes  a  dark  figure  has  ridden  away,  changing 
the  ver}'-  face  of  the  earth  for  a  season.  Sometimes 
a  thunder  of  dismay  has  followed,  or  a  vision  of 
sweet  peace  and  comfort;  and  sometimes  one  has 
assuredly  known  that  a  seal  has  been  broken,  to  be 
followed  by  a  silence  in  heaven  and  earth. 

And  thus  these  solemn  and  mournful  visions  re- 
tain a  great  hold  over  the  mind;  it  is,  with  myself. 


i 


The  Apocalypse  175 

partly  the  childish  associations  of  wonder  and 
delight.  One  recurred  so  eagerly  to  the  book,  be- 
cause, instead  of  mere  thought  and  argument, 
earthly  events,  wars  and  dynasties,  here  was  a  gal- 
lery of  mysterious  pictures,  things  seen  out  of  the 
body,  scenes  of  bright  colour  and  monstrous  forms, 
enacted  on  the  stage  of  heaven.  That  is  entranc- 
ing still ;  but  beyond  and  above  these  strange  forms 
and  pictured  fancies,  I  now  discern  a  deeper  mys- 
tery of  thought;  not  pure  and  abstract  thought, 
flashes  of  insight,  comforting  grace,  kindled  de- 
sires, but  rather  that  more  complex  thought  that, 
through  a  perception  of  strange  forms,  a  waving 
robe  of  scarlet,  a  pavement  bright  with  jewels,  a 
burning  star,  a  bird  of  sombre  plumage,  a  dark 
grove,  breathes  a  subtle  insight,  like  a  strain  of 
unearthly  music,  interpreting  the  hopes  and  fears 
of  the  heart  by  haunted  glimpses  and  obscure  signs. 
I  do  not  know  in  what  shadowy  region  of  the  soul 
these  things  draw  near,  but  it  is  in  a  region  which 
is  distinct  and  apart,  a  region  where  the  dreaming 
mind  projects  upon  the  dark  its  dimly-woven  vis- 
ions; a  region  where  it  is  not  wise  to  wander  too 
eagerly  and  carelessly,  but  into  which  one  may  look 
warily  and  intently  at  seasons,  standing  upon  the 
dizzy  edge  of  time,  and  gazing  out  beyond  the  flam- 
ing ramparts  of  the  world. 


176  The  Thread  of  Gold 

XXXII 

I  SAW  a  strange  and  moving  thing  to-day.  I 
went  with  a  friend  to  visit  a  great  house  in  the 
neighbourhood.  The  owner  was  away,  but  my 
friend  enjoyed  the  right  of  leisurely  access  to  the 
place,  and  we  thought  we  would  take  the  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  it. 

We  entered  at  the  lodge,  and  walked  through  the 
old  deer-j)ark  wdth  its  huge  knotted  oaks,  its  wide 
expanse  of  grass.  The  deer  were  feeding  quietly 
in  a  long  herd.  The  great  house  itself  came  in 
sight,  with  its  j)ortico  and  pavilions  staring  at  us,  so 
it  seemed,  blankly  and  seriously,  with  shuttered 
eyes.  The  whole  place  unutterably  still  and  de- 
serted, like  a  house  seen  in  a  dream. 

There  was  one  particular  thing  that  we  came 
to  visit;  we  left  the  house  on  the  left,  and  turned 
through  a  little  iron  gate  into  a  thick  grove  of 
trees.  We  soon  became  aware  that  there  was  open 
ground  before  us,  and  presently  we  came  to  a  space 
in  the  heart  of  the  wood,  where  there  was  a  silent 
pool  all  overgrown  with  water-lilies;  the  bushes 
grew  thickly  round  the  edge.  The  pool  was  full  of 
water-birds,  coots,  and  moor-hens,  sailing  aimlessly 
about,  and  uttering  strange,  melancholy  cries  at 
intervals.  On  the  edge  of  the  water  stood  a  small 
marble  temple,  streaked  and  stained  by  the  weather. 


The  Statue  177 

As  we  approached  it,  my  friend  told  me  something 
of  the  builder  of  the  little  shrine.  He  was  a  former 
owner  of  the  place,  a  singular  man,  who  in  his  later 
days  had  lived  a  very  solitary  life  here.  He  was  a 
man  of  wild  and  wayward  impulses,  who  had  drunk 
deeply  in  youth  of  pleasure  and  excitement.  He 
had  married  a  beautiful  young  wife,  who  had  died 
childless  in  the  first  yesir  of  their  marriage,  and  he 
had  abandoned  himself  after  this  event  to  a  despair- 
ing seclusion,  devoted  to  art  and  music.  He  had 
filled  the  great  house  with  fine  pictures,  he  had  writ- 
ten a  book  of  poems,  and  some  curious  stilted  vol- 
umes of  autobiographical  prose;  but  he  had  no  art 
of  expression,  and  his  books  had  seemed  like  a 
powerless  attempt  to  give  utterance  to  wild  and 
melancholy  musings;  they  were  written  in  a 
pompous  and  elaborate  stjde,  which  divested  the 
thoughts  of  such  charm  as  they  might  have 
possessed. 

He  had  lived  thus  to  a  considerable  age  in  a  wil- 
ful sadness,  unloving  and  unloved.  He  had  cared 
nothing  for  the  people  of  the  place,  entertained  no 
visitors;  rambling,  a  proud  solitary  figure,  about 
the  demesne,  or  immured  for  days  together  in  his 
library.  Had  the  story  not  been  true,  it  w^ould 
have  appeared  like  some  elaborate  fiction. 

He  built  this  little  temple  in  memory  of  the  ^vife 
whom  he  had  lost,  and  often  visited  it,  spending 


178  The  Thread  of  Gold 

hours  on  hot  summer  days  wandering  about  the 
httle  lake,  or  sitting  silent  in  the  portico.  We  went 
up  to  the  building.  It  was  a  mere  alcove,  open  to 
the  air.  But  what  arrested  my  attention  was  a 
marble  figure  of  a  young  man,  in  a  sitting  position, 
lightly  clad  in  a  tunic,  the  neck,  arms,  and  knees 
bare;  one  knee  was  flung  over  the  other,  and  the 
chin  was  propped  on  an  arm,  the  elbow  of  which 
rested  on  the  knee.  The  face  was  a  w^onderful  and 
expressive  piece  of  work.  The  boy  seemed  to  be 
staring  out,  not  seeing  what  he  looked  upon,  but 
lost  in  a  deep  agony  of  thought.  The  face  was  won- 
derfully pure  and  beautiful ;  and  the  anguish  seemed 
not  the  anguish  of  remorse,  but  the  pain  of  looking 
upon  things  both  sweet  and  beautiful,  and  of  yet 
being  unable  to  take  a  share  in  them.  The  whole 
figure  denoted  a  listless  melancholy.  It  was  the 
work  of  a  famous  French  sculptor,  who  seemed  to 
have  worked  under  close  and  minute  direction ;  and 
my  friend  told  me  that  no  less  than  three  statues 
had  been  completed  before  the  owner  was  satisfied. 
On  the  pedestal  were  sculptured  the  pathetic 
words,  Ot/Aot  fiaX"  au^ts.  There  was  a  look  of  re- 
volt of  dumb  anger  upon  the  face  that  lay  behind 
its  utter  and  hopeless  sadness.  I  knew  too  well,  by 
a  swift  instinct,  what  the  statue  stood  for.  Here 
was  one,  made  for  life,  activity,  and  joy,  who  yet 
found  himself  baffled,  thwarted,  shut  out  from  the 


The  Statue  179 

paradise  that  seemed  to  open  all  about  him;  it  was 
the  face  of  one  who  had  found  satiety  in  pleasure, 
and  sorrow  in  the  very  heart  of  joy.  There  was  no 
taint  of  grossness  or  of  luxury  in  the  face,  but  rather 
a  strength,  an  intellectual  force,  a  firm  lucidity  of 
thought.  I  confess  that  the  sight  moved  me  very 
strangely.  I  felt  a  thrill  of  the  deepest  compas- 
sion, a  desire  to  do  something  that  might  help  or 
comfort,  a  yearning  wish  to  aid,  to  explain,  to 
cheer.  The  silence,  the  stillness,  the  hopelessness 
of  the  pathetic  figure  woke  in  me  the  intensest  de- 
sire to  give  I  knew  not  what — an  overwhelming 
impulse  of  pity.  It  seemed  a  parable  of  all  the  joy 
that  is  so  sternly  checked,  all  the  hopes  made  vain, 
the  promise  disappointed,  the  very  death  of  the  soul. 
It  seemed  infinitely  pathetic  that  God  should  have 
made  so  fair  a  thing,  and  then  withheld  joy.  And 
it  seemed  as  though  I  had  looked  into  the  yery  soul 
of  the  unhappy  man  who  had  set  up  so  strange  and 
pathetic  an  allegory  of  his  sufferings.  The  boy 
seemed  as  though  he  would  have  welcomed  death — 
anything  that  brought  an  end;  yet  the  health  and 
suppleness  of  the  bright  figure  held  out  no  hope  of 
that.  It  was  the  very  type  of  unutterable  sorrow, 
and  that  not  in  an  outworn  body,  and  reflected  in  a 
face  dim  with  sad  experience,  but  in  a  perfectly 
fresh  and  strong  frame,  built  for  action  and  life. 
I  cannot  say  what  remote  thoughts,  what  dark  com- 


^ 


180  The  Thread  of  Gold 

"munings,  visited  me  at  the  sight.  I  seemed  con- 
fronted all  at  once  with  the  deepest  sadness  of  the 
world,  as  though  an  unerring  arrow  had  pierced  my 
very  heart — an  arrow  winged  by  beauty,  and  shot 
on  a  summer  day  of  sunshine  and  song.  Ij 

Is  there  any  faith  that  is  strong  enough  and  deep 
enough  to  overcome  such  questionings  ?  It  seemed 
to  bring  me  near  to  all  those  pale  and  hopeless 
agonies  of  the  world;  all  the  snapping  short  of  joy, 
the  confronting  of  life  w^ith  death — those  dreadful 
moments  when  the  heart  asks  itself,  in  a  kind  of 
furious  horror,  "  Hoav  can  it  be  that  I  am  filled  so 
full  of  all  the  instinct  of  joy  and  life,  and  yet  bidden 
to  suffer  and  to  die? " 

The  only  hope  is  in  an  utter  and  silent  resigna- 
tion; in  the  belief  that,  if  there  is  a  purpose  in  the 
gift  of  joy,  there  is  a  purpose  in  the  gift  of  suffer- 
ing. And  as  thus,  in  that  calm  afternoon,  in  the 
silent  wood,  by  the  shining  pool,  I  lifted  up  my 
heart  to  God  to  be  consoled,  I  felt  a  great  hope 
draw  near,  as  when  the  vast  tide  flows  landward, 
and  fills  the  dry,  solitary  sand-pools  with  the  leap- 
ing brine.  "  Only  wait,"  said  the  deep  and  tender 
voice,  "  only  endure,  onty  believe;  and  a  sweetness, 
a  beauty,  a  truth  beyond  your  utmost  dreams  shall 
be  revealed." 


The  Mystery  of  Suffering  181 

XXXIII 

Here  is  a  story  which  has  much  occupied  my 
thoughts  lately.  A  man  in  middle  life,  with  a 
widowed  sister  and  her  children  depending  on  him, 
living  by  professional  exertions,  is  suddenly  at- 
tacked by  a  painful,  horrible,  and  fatal  complaint. 
He  goes  through  a  terrible  operation,  and  then 
struggles  back  to  his  work  again,  with  the  utmost 
courage  and  gallantry.  Again  the  complaint  re- 
turns, and  the  operation  is  repeated.  After  this  he 
returns  again  to  his  work,  but  at  last,  after  endur- 
ing untold  agonies,  he  is  forced  to  retire  into  an 
invalid  life,  after  a  few  months  of  which  he  died 
in  terrible  suffering,  and  leaves  his  sister  and  the 
children  nearly  penniless. 

The  man  was  a  quiet,  simple-minded  person,  fond 
of  his  work,  fond  of  his  home,  conventional  and  not 
remarkable  except  for  the  simply  heroic  quality  he 
displayed,  smiling  and  joking  up  to  the  moment  of 
the  administering  of  an£esthetics  for  his  operations, 
and  bearing  his  sufferings  with  perfect  patience  and 
fortitude,  never  saying  an  impatient  word,  grateful 
for  the  smallest  services. 

His  sister,  a  simple,  active  woman,  with  much 
tender  affection  and  considerable  shrewdness,  find- 
ing that  the  fear  of  incurring  needless  expense  dis- 
tressed her  brother,  devoted  herself  to  the  ghastly 


182  The  Thread  of  Gold 

and  terrible  task  of  nursing  him  through  his  ill- 
nesses. The  children  behaved  with  the  same 
straightforward  affection  and  goodness.  None  of 
the  circle  ever  complained,  ever  said  a  word  which 
would  lead  one  to  suj)pose  that  they  had  any  feeling 
of  resentment  or  cowardice.  They  simply  received 
the  blows  of  fate  humbly,  resignedly,  and  cheer- 
fully, and  made  the  best  of  the  situation. 

Now,  let  us  look  this  story  in  the  face,  and  see  if 
Ave  can  derive  any  hope  or  comfort  from  it.  In  the 
first  place,  there  was  nothing  in  the  man's  life  which 
would  lead  one  to  suppose  that  he  deserved  or 
needed  this  special  chastening,  this  crucifixion  of 
the  body.  He  was  by  instinct  humble,  laborious, 
unselfish,  and  good,  all  of  which  qualities  came  out 
in  his  illness.  Neither  was  there  anything  in  the 
life  or  character  of  the  sister  which  seemed  to  need 
this  stern  and  severe  trial.  The  household  had  lived 
a  very  quiet,  active,  useful  life,  models  of  good  citi- 
zens— religious,  contented,  drawing  great  happi- 
ness from  very  simple  resources. 

One's  belief  in  the  goodness,  the  justice,  the  pa- 
tience of  the  Father  and  Maker  of  men  forbids  one 
to  believe  that  he  can  ever  be  wantonly  cruel,  un- 
just, or  unloving.  Yet  it  is  impossible  to  see  the 
mercy  or  justice  of  his  actions  in  this  case.  And 
the  misery  is  that,  if  it  could  be  proved  that  in  one 
single  case,  however  small,  God's  goodness  had,  so 


The  Mystery  of  Suffering  183 

to  speak,  broken  down;  if  there  were  evidence  of 
neglect  or  carelessness  or  indifference,  in  the  case  of 
one  single  child  of  his,  one  single  sentient  thing  that 
he  has  created,  it  would  be  impossible  to  believe  in 
his  omnipotence  any  more.  Either  one  Avould  feel 
that  he  was  unjust  and  cruel,  or  that  there  was  some 
evil  power  at  work  in  the  world  which  he  could  not 
overcome. 

For  there  is  nothing  remedial  in  this  suffering. 
The  man's  useful,  gentle  life  is  over,  the  sister  is 
broken  down,  unhappj^  a  second  time  made  de- 
solate; the  children's  education  has  suffered,  their 
home  is  made  miserable.  The  only  thing  that  one 
can  see,  that  is  in  any  degree  a  compensation,  is 
the  extraordinary  kindness  displayed  by  friends,  re- 
lations, and  employers  in  making  things  easy  for 
the  afflicted  household.  And  then,  too,  there  is  the 
heroic  quality  of  soul  displayed  by  the  sufferer  him- 
self and  his  sister — a  heroism  which  is  ennobling  to 
think  of,  and  yet  humiliating  too,  because  it  seems 
to  be  so  far  out  of  one's  own  reach. 

This  is  a  very  dark  abyss  of  the  world  into  which 
we  are  looking.  The  case  is  an  extreme  one  per- 
haps, but  similar  things  happen  every  day,  in  this 
sad,  and  w^onderful,  and  bewildering  world.  Of 
course,  one  may  take  refuge  in  a  gloomy  acquies- 
cence, saying  that  such  things  seem  to  be  part  of  the 
world  as  it  is  made,  and  we  cannot  explain  them, 


184  The  Thread  of  Gold 

while  we  dumbly  hope  that  we  may  be  spared  such 
woes.  But  that  is  a  dark  and  despairing  attitude, 
and,  for  one,  I  cannot  live  at  all,  unless  I  feel  that 
God  is  indeed  more  uj)on  our  side  than  that.  I 
cannot  live  at  all,  I  sa3^  And  j^et  I  must  live;  I 
must  endure  the  Will  of  God  in  whatever  form  it  is 
laid  upon  me — in  joy  or  in  pain,  in  contentment  or 
sick  despair.  Why  am  I  at  one  with  the  Will  of 
God  when  it  gives  me  strength,  and  hope,  and  de- 
light? Why  am  I  so  averse  to  it  when  it  brings  me 
languor,  and  sorrow,  and  despair?  That  I  cannot 
tell;  and  that  is  the  enigma  which  has  confronted 
men  from  generation  to  generation. 

But  I  still  believe  that  there  is  a  Will  of  God; 
and,  more  than  that,  I  can  still  believe  that  a  day 
comes  for  all  of  us,  however  far  off  it  may  be,  when 
we  shall  understand ;  when  these  tragedies,  that  now 
blacken  and  darken  the  very  air  of  Heaven  for  us, 
will  sink  into  their  places  in  a  scheme  so  august,  so 
magnificent,  so  joyful,  that  we  shall  laugh  for  won- 
der and  delight ;  when  we  shall  think  not  more  sor- 
rowfully over  these  sufferings,  these  agonies,  than 
we  think  now  of  the  sad  days  in  our  childhood  when 
we  sat  with  a  passion  of  tears  over  a  broken  toy  or  a 
dead  bird,  feeling  that  we  could  not  be  comforted. 
We  smile  as  we  remember  such  things — we  smile  at 
our  blindness,  our  limitations.  We  smile  to  reflect 
at  the  great  range  and  panorama  of  the  world  that 


Music  185 

has  opened  upon  us  since,  and  of  which,  in  our 
childish  grief,  we  were  so  ignorant.  Under  what 
conditions  the  glory  will  be  revealed  to  us  I  cannot 
guess.  But  I  do  not  doubt  that  it  will  be  revealed; 
for  we  forget  sorrow,  but  we  do  not  forget  joy. 

XXXIV 

I  HAVE  just  come  back  from  hearing  a  great 
violinist,  who  played,  with  three  other  professors, 
in  two  quartettes,  JMozart  and  Beethoven.  I  know 
little  of  the  technicalities  of  music,  but  I  know  that 
the  Mozart  was  full  to  me  of  air  and  sunlight,  and 
a  joy  which  was  not  the  light-hearted  gaiety  of 
earth,  but  the  untainted  and  unwearying  joy  of 
heaven;  the  Beethoven  I  do  not  think  I  understood, 
but  there  was  a  grave  minor  movement,  with  pizzi- 
cato passages  for  the  violoncello,  which  seemed  to 
consecrate  and  dignify  the  sorrow  of  the  heart. 

But  apart  from  the  technical  merits  of  the  music 
— and  the  performance,  indeed,  seemed  to  me  to 
lie  as  near  the  thought  and  the  conception  as  the 
translation  of  music  into  sound  can  go — the  sight 
of  these  four  big  men,  serious  and  grave,  as  though 
neither  pursuing  nor  creating  pleasure,  but  as 
though  interpreting  and  giving  expression  to  some 
weighty  secret,  had  an  inspiring  and  solemnising 
effect.  The  sight  of  the  great  violinist  himself  was 
full  of  awe;  his  big  head,  the  full  grey  beard  which 


18G  The  Thread  of  Gold 

lay  over  the  top  of  the  violin,  his  calm,  set  brows, 
his  weary  eyes  with  their  heavy  lids,  had  a  profound 
dignity  and  seriousness;  and  to  see  his  wonderful 
hands,  not  delicate  or  slender,  but  full,  strong,  and 
muscular,  moving  neither  Hngeringly  nor  hastily, 
but  with  a  firm  and  easy  deliberation  upon  the 
strings,  was  deeply  impressive.  It  all  seemed  so 
easy,  so  inevitable,  so  utterly  without  display,  so 
simple  and  great.  It  gave  one  a  sense  of  mingled 
fire  and  quietude,  which  is  the  end  of  art, — one  may 
almost  say  the  end  of  life;  it  was  no  leaping  and 
fitful  flame,  but  a  calm  and  steady  glow ;  not  a  con- 
suming fire,  but  like  the  strength  of  a  mighty  fur- 
nace ; — and  then  the  peace  of  it !  The  great  man  did 
not  stand  before  us  as  a  performer;  he  seemed 
utterty  indifferent  to  praise  or  applause,  and  he 
had  rather  a  grave,  pontifical  air,  as  of  a  priest, 
divinely  called  to  minister,  celebrating  a  divine  mys- 
tery, calling  down  the  strength  of  heaven  to  earth. 
Neither  was  there  the  least  sense  of  one  conferring 
a  favour;  he  rather  appeared  to  recognise  that  we 
were  there  in  the  same  spirit  as  himself,  the  wor- 
shippers in  some  high  solemnity,  and  his  own  skill 
not  a  thing  to  be  shown  or  gloried  in,  but  a  mere 
ministering  of  a  sacred  gift.  He  seemed,  indeed,  to 
be  like  one  who  distributed  a  sacramental  meat  to 
an  intent  throng;  not  a  giver  of  pleasure,  but  a 
channel  of  secret  grace. 


Music  187 

From  such  art  as  this  one  comes  away  not  only 
with  a  thrill  of  mortal  rapture,  but  with  a  real  and 
deep  faith  in  art,  having  bowed  the  head  before  a 
shrine,  and  having  tasted  the  food  of  the  spirit. 
When,  at  the  end  of  a  sweet  and  profound  move- 
ment, the  player  raised  his  great  head  and  looked 
round  tenderly  and  gently  on  the  crowd,  one  felt  as 
though,  like  Moses,  he  had  struck  the  rock,  and  the 
streams  had  gushed  out,  ut  hibat  yopnlus.  And 
there  fell  an  even  deeper  awe,  which  seemed  to  say, 
*'  God  was  in  this  place  .  .  .  and  I  knew  it 
not."  The  world  of  movement,  of  talk,  of  work, 
of  conflicting  interests,  into  which  one  must  return, 
seemed  all  a  fantastic  noise,  a  shadowy  striving ;  the 
only  real  thing  seemed  the  presence-chamber  from 
which  we  had  gone  out,  the  chamber  in  which  music 
had  uttered  its  voice  at  the  bidding  of  some  sacred 
spell,  the  voice  of  an  infinite  Spirit,  the  Spirit  that 
had  brooded  upon  the  deep,  evoking  order  out  of 
chaos  and  light  out  of  darkness ;  with  no  eager  and 
dusty  manceuvrings,  no  clink  and  clatter  of  human 
toil,  but  gliding  resistlessly  and  largely  upon  the 
world,  as  the  sun  by  silent  degrees  detaches  himself 
from  the  dark  rim  of  the  world,  and  climbs  in  stately 
progress  into  the  unclouded  heaven. 

XXXV 

I  READ  a  terrible  letter  in  a  newspaper  this  morn- 


188  The  Thread  of  Gold 

ing,  a  letter  from  a  clergyman  of  high  position, 
finding  fault  with  a  manifesto  put  out  by  certain 
other  clergymen;  the  letter  had  a  certain  volubility 
about  it,  and  the  writer  seemed  to  me  to  pull  out 
rather  adroitly  one  or  two  loose  sticks  in  his  op- 
ponents' bundle,  and  to  lay  them  vehemently  about 
their  backs.  But,  alas!  the  acrimony,  the  positive- 
ness,  the  arrogance  of  it!  l! 

I  do  not  know  that  I  admired  the  manifesto  very 
much  myself ;  it  was  a  timid  and  half-hearted  docu- 
ment, but  it  was  at  least  sympathetic  and  tender. 
The  purport  of  it  was  to  say  that,  just  as  historical 
criticism  has  shown  that  some  of  the  Old  Testament 
must  be  regarded  as  fabulous,  so  we  must  be  pre- 
pared for  a  possible  loss  of  certitude  in  some  of  the 
details  of  the  New  Testament.  It  is  conceivable, 
for  instance,  that  without  sacrificing  the  least  por- 
tion of  the  essential  teaching  of  Christ,  men  may 
come  to  feel  justified  in  a  certain  suspension  of 
judgment  with  regard  to  some  of  the  miraculous 
occurrences  there  related ;  may  even  grow  to  believe 
that  an  element  of  exaggeration  is  there,  that  ele- 
ment of  exaggeration  which  is  never  absent  from 
the  writings  of  any  age  in  which  scientific  historical 
methods  had  no  existence.  A  suspension  of  judg- 
ment, say :  because  in  the  absence  of  any  converging 
historical  testimony  to  the  events  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment, it  will  never  be  possible  either  to  affirm  or  to 


!? 


The  Faith  of  Christ  189 

deny  historically  that  the  facts  took  place  exactly 
as  related;  though,  indeed,  the  probability  of  their 
having  so  occurred  may  seem  to  be  diminished. 

The  controversialist,  whose  letter  I  read  with  be- 
wilderment and  pain,  involved  his  real  belief  in  in- 
genious sentences,  so  that  one  would  think  that  he 
accepted  the  statements  of  the  Old  Testament,  such 
as  the  account  of  the  Creation  and  the  Fall,  the 
speaking  of  Balaam's  Ass,  the  swallowing  of  Jonah 
by  the  whale,  as  historical  facts.  He  went  on  to 
say  that  the  miraculous  element  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment is  accredited  by  the  Revelation  of  God,  as 
though  some  definite  revelation  of  truth  had  taken 
place  at  some  time  or  other,  which  all  rational  men 
recognised.  But  the  only  objective  process  which 
has  ever  taken  place  is,  that  at  certain  Councils  of 
the  Church,  certain  books  of  Scripture  were  se- 
lected as  essential  documents,  and  the  previous 
selection  of  the  Old  Testament  books  was  con- 
firmed. But  would  the  controversialist  say  that 
these  Councils  were  infallible?  It  must  surely  be 
clear  to  all  rational  people  that  the  members  of 
these  Councils  were  merely  doing  their  best,  under 
the  conditions  that  then  prevailed,  to  select  the  books 
that  seemed  to  them  to  contain  the  truth.  It  is  im- 
possible to  believe  that  if  the  majority  at  these  Coun- 
cils had  supposed  that  such  an  account  as  the  ac- 
count in  Genesis  of  the  Creation  w^as  mythological, 


190  The  Thread  of  Gold 

they  would  thus  have  attested  its  literal  truth. 
It  never  occurred  to  them  to  doubt  it,  because  they 
did  not  understand  the  j)rinciple  that,  while  a 
normal  event  can  be  accepted,  if  it  is  fairly  well 
confirmed,  an  abnormal  event  requires  a  far  greater 
amount  of  converging  testimony  to  confirm  it. 

If  only  the  clergy  could  realise  that  what  ordi- 
nary laymen  like  myself  want  is  a  greater  elasticity 
instead  of  an  irrational  certainty!  if  only  instead 
of  feebly  trying  save  the  outworks,  which  are  al- 
ready in  the  hands  of  the  enemy,  they  would  man 
the  walls  of  the  central  fortress !  If  only  they  would 
say  plainly  that  a  man  could  remain  a  convinced 
Christian,  and  yet  not  be  bound  to  hold  to  the  literal 
accuracy  of  the  account  of  miraculous  incidents  re- 
corded in  the  Bible,  it  would  be  a  great  relief. 

I  am  myself  in  the  position  of  thousands  of  other 
laymen.  I  am  a  sincere  Christian;  and  yet  I  re- 
gard the  Old  Testament  and  the  New  Testament 
alike  as  the  work  of  fallible  men  and  of  poetical 
minds.  I  regard  the  Old  Testament  as  a  noble 
collection  of  ancient  writings,  containing  myths, 
chronicles,  fables,  poems,  and  dramas,  the  value  of 
which  consists  in  the  intense  faith  in  a  personal  God 
and  Father  with  which  it  is  penetrated. 

When  I  come  to  the  New  Testament,  I  feel  my- 
self, in  the  Gospels,  confronted  by  the  most  wonder- 
ful personality  which  has  ever  drawn  breath  upon 


The  Faith  of  Christ  191 

the  earth.  I  am  not  in  a  position  to  affirm  or  to 
deny  the  exact  truth  of  the  miraculous  occurrences 
there  related;  but  the  more  conscious  I  am  of  the 
fallibility,  the  lack  of  subtlet}%  the  absence  of 
trained  historical  method  that  the  writers  displaj^ 
the  more  convinced  I  am  of  the  essential  truth  of 
the  person  and  teaching  of  Christ,  because  he  seems 
to  me  a  figure  so  infinitely  bej'^ond  the  intellectual 
power  of  those  who  described  him  to  have  invented 
or  created. 

If  the  authors  of  the  Gospels  had  been  men  of 
delicate  literary  skill,  of  acute  philosophical  or 
poetical  insight,  like  Plato  or  Shakespeare,  then  I 
should  be  far  less  convinced  of  the  integral  truth  of 
the  record.  But  the  words  and  sayings  of  Christ, 
the  ideas  which  he  disseminated,  seem  to  me  so  in- 
finitely above  the  highest  achievements  of  the  hu- 
man spirit,  that  I  have  no  difficulty  in  confessing, 
humbly  and  reverently,  that  I  am  in  the  presence  of 
one  who  seems  to  me  to  be  above  humanity,  and  not 
only  of  it.  If  all  the  miraculous  events  of  the  Gos- 
pels could  be  proved  never  to  have  occurred,  it 
would  not  disturb  my  faith  in  Christ  for  an  instant. 
But  I  am  content,  as  it  is,  to  believe  in  the  possi- 
bility of  so  abnormal  a  personality  being  sur- 
rounded by  abnormal  events,  though  I  am  not  in  a 
position  to  disentangle  the  actual  truth  from  the 
possibilities  of  misrepresentation  and  exaggeration. 


192  The  Thread  of  Gold 

Dealing  with  the  rest  of  the  Xew  Testament,  I 
see  in  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles  a  deeply  interesting 
record  of  the  first  ripples  of  the  faith  in  the  world. 
In  the  Pauline  and  other  epistles  I  see  the  words  of 
fervent  primitive  Christians,  men  of  real  and  un- 
tutored genius,  in  which  one  has  amazing  instances 
of  the  effect  produced,  on  contemporary  or  nearly 
contemporary  persons,  of  the  same  overwhelming 
personality,  the  personalitj^  of  Christ.  In  the  Apoc- 
alypse I  see  a  vision  of  deep  poetical  force  and 
insight. 

But  in  none  of  these  compositions,  though  they 
reveal  a  glow  and  fervour  of  conviction  that  places 
them  high  among  the  memorials  of  the  human 
spirit,  do  I  recognise  anything  which  is  beyond 
human  possibilities.  I  observe,  indeed,  that  St. 
Paul's  method  of  argument  is  not  always  perfectly 
consistent,  nor  his  conclusions  absolute^  cogent. 
Such  inspiration  as  they  contain  thej^  draw  from 
their  nearness  to  and  their  close  apprehension  of  the 
dim  and  awe-inspiring  presence  of  Christ  himself. 

If,  as  I  say,  the  Church  would  concentrate  her 
forces  in  this  inner  fortress,  the  personality^  of 
Christ,  and  quit  the  debatable  ground  of  historical 
enquirj^  it  would  be  to  me  and  to  many  an  un- 
feigned relief;  but  meanwhile,  neither  scientific 
critics  nor  irrational  pedants  shall  invalidate  my 
claim  to  be  of  the  number  of  believing  Christians. 


The  Faith  of  Christ  193 

I  claim  a  Christian  liberty  of  thought,  while  I  ac- 
knowledge, with  bowed  head,  my  belief  in  God  the 
Father  of  men,  in  a  Divine  Christ,  the  Redeemer 
and  Saviour,  and  in  the  presence  in  the  hearts  of 
men  of  a  Divine  spirit,  leading  humanity  tenderly 
forward.  I  can  neither  affirm  nor  deny  the  literal 
accuracy  of  Scripture  records;  I  am  not  in  a  posi- 
tion to  den}^  the  superstructure  of  definite  dogma 
raised  by  the  tradition  of  the  Church  about  the  cen- 
tral truths  of  its  teaching,  but  neither  can  I  deny 
the  possibility  of  an  admixture  of  human  error  in 
the  fabric.  I  claim  my  right  to  receive  the  Sacra- 
ments of  my  Church,  believing  as  I  do  that  they 
invigorate  the  soul,  bring  the  presence  of  its  Re- 
deemer near,  and  constitute  a  bond  of  Christian 
unity.  But  I  have  no  reason  to  believe  that  any 
human  pronouncement  whatever,  the  pronounce- 
ments of  men  of  science  as  well  as  the  pronounce- 
ments of  theologians,  are  not  liable  to  error.  There 
is  indeed  no  fact  in  the  w^orld  except  the  fact  of 
my  own  existence  of  which  I  am  absolutely  certain. 
And  thus  I  can  accept  no  system  of  religion  which 
is  based  upon  deductions,  however  subtle,  from 
isolated  texts,  because  I  cannot  be  sure  of  the  in- 
fallibility of  any  form  of  human  expression.  Yet, 
on  the  other  hand,  I  seem  to  discern  with  as  much 
certainty  as  I  can  discern  anything  in  this  world, 
where  all  is  so  dark,  the  presence  upon  earth  at  a 
13 


194  The  Thre.\d  of  Gold 

certain  date  of  a  personality  which  commands  my 
homage  and  allegiance.  And  upon  this  I  build  my 
trust. 

XXXVI 

I  WAS  staying  the  other  day  in  a  large  old  coun- 
try-house. One  morning,  my  host  came  to  me  and 
said:  "  I  should  like  to  show  you  a  curious  thing. 
We  have  just  discovered  a  cellar  here  that  seems 
never  to  have  been  visited  or  used  since  the  house 
was  built,  and  there  is  the  strangest  fungoid  growth 
in  it  I  have  ever  seen."  He  took  a  big  bunch  of 
keys,  rang  the  bell,  gave  an  order  for  lights  to  be 
brought,  and  we  went  together  to  the  place.  There 
were  ranges  of  brick-built,  vaulted  chambers, 
through  which  we  passed,  pleasant,  cool  places,  with 
no  plaster  to  conceal  the  native  brick,  with  great 
wine-bins  on  either  hand.  It  all  gave  one  an  ink- 
ling of  the  change  in  material  conditions  which 
must  have  taken  place  since  they  were  built;  the 
quantity  of  wine  consumed  in  eighteenth-century 
days  must  have  been  so  enormous,  and  the  difficulty 
of  conveyance  so  great,  that  every  great  householder 
must  have  felt  like  the  Rich  Fool  of  the  parable, 
with  much  goods  laid  up  for  many  years.  In  the 
corner  of  one  of  the  great  vaults  was  a  low  arched 
door,  and  my  friend  explained  that  some  panelling 


The  Mystery  of  Evil  195 

which  had  been  taken  out  of  an  older  house,  de- 
molished to  make  room  for  the  present  mansion,  had 
been  piled  up  here,  and  thus  the  entrance  had  been 
hidden.  He  unlocked  the  door,  and  a  strange  scent 
came  out.  An  abundance  of  lights  were  lit,  and 
we  went  into  the  vault.  It  was  the  strangest  scene 
I  have  ever  beheld ;  the  end  of  the  vault  seemed  like 
a  great  bed,  hung  with  brown  velvet  curtains, 
through  the  gaps  of  which  were  visible  what  seemed 
like  white  velvet  pillows,  strange  humped  conglom- 
erations. My  friend  explained  to  me  that  there 
had  been  a  bin  at  the  end  of  the  vault,  out  of  the 
wood  of  which  these  singular  fungi  had  sprouted. 
The  whole  place  was  uncanny  and  horrible.  The 
great  velvet  curtains  swayed  in  the  current  of  air, 
and  it  seemed  as  though  at  any  moment  some  mys- 
terious sleeper  might  be  awakened,  might  peer 
forth  from  his  dark  curtains,  with  a  fretful  enquiry 
as  to  why  he  was  disturbed. 

The  scene  dwelt  in  my  mind  for  many  days,  and 
aroused  in  me  a  strange  train  of  thought ;  these  dim 
vegetable  forms,  with  their  rich  luxuriance,  their 
sinister  beauty,  awoke  a  curious  repugnance  in  the 
mind.  They  seemed  unholy  and  evil.  And  yet 
it  is  all  part  of  the  life  of  nature;  it  is  just  as  nat- 
ural, just  as  beautiful  to  find  life  at  work  in  this 
gloomy  and  unvisited  place,  wreathing  the  bare  walls 
with  these  dark,  soft  fabrics.      It  was  impossible 


I 


196  The  Thread  of  Gold 

not  to  feel  that  there  was  a  certain  joy  of  life  in 
these  growths,  sprouting  with  such  security  and 
luxuriance  in  a  place  so  precisely  adapted  to  their 
well-being;  and  yet  there  was  the  shadow  of  death 
and  darkness  about  them,  to  us  whose  home  is  the 
free  air  and  the  sun.  It  seemed  to  me  to  make  a 
curious  parable  of  the  baffling  mystery  of  evil,  the 
luxuriant  growth  of  sin  in  the  dark  soul.  I  have 
always  felt  that  the  reason  why  the  mystery  of  evil 
is  so  baffling  is  because  we  so  resolutely  think  of  evil 
as  of  something  inimical  to  the  nature  of  God ;  and 
yet  evil  must  derive  its  vitality  from  him.  The  one 
thing  that  it  is  impossible  to  believe  is  that,  in  a 
world  ruled  by  an  all-powerful  God,  anything 
should  come  into  existence  which  is  in  opposition 
to  his  Will.  It  is  impossible  to  arrive  at  any  solu- 
tion of  the  difficulty,  unless  we  either  adopt  the  be- 
lief that  God  is  not  all-powerful,  and  that  there  is  a 
real  dualism  in  nature,  two  powers  in  eternal  op- 
position; or  else  realise  that  evil  is  in  some  way  a 
manifestation  of  God.  If  we  adopt  the  first 
theory,  we  may  conceive  of  the  stationary  tendency 
in  nature,  its  inertness,  the  force  that  tends  to  bring 
motion  to  a  standstill,  as  one  power,  the  power  of 
Death;  and  we  may  conceive  of  all  motion  and 
force  as  the  other  power,  the  quickening  spirit,  the 
power  of  life.  But  even  here  we  are  met  with  a 
difficulty,  for  when  we  try  to  transfer  this  dualism 


The  Mystery  of  Evil  197 

to  the  region  of  humanity,  we  see  that  in  the  pheno- 
mena of  disease  we  are  confronted,  not  with  inert- 
ness fighting  against  motion,  but  with  one  kind  of 
life,  which  is  inimical  to  human  life,  fighting  with 
another  kind  of  life  which  is  favourable  to  health. 
I  mean  that  when  a  fever  or  a  cancer  lays  hold  of  a 
human  frame,  it  is  nothing  but  the  lodging  inside 
the  body  of  a  bacterial  and  an  infusorial  life  which 
fights  against  the  healthy  native  life  of  the  human 
organism.  There  must  be,  I  will  not  say  a  con- 
sciousness, but  a  sense  of  triumxihant  life,  in  the 
cancer  which  feeds  upon  the  limb,  in  spite  of  all 
efforts  to  dislodge  it;  and  it  is  impossible  to  me  to 
believe  that  the  vitality  of  those  parasitical  organ- 
isms, which  prey  upon  the  human  frame,  is  not 
derived  from  the  vital  impulse  of  God.  We,  who 
live  in  the  free  air  and  the  sun,  have  a  way  of  think- 
ing and  speaking  as  if  the  plants  and  animals  which 
develop  under  the  same  conditions  were  of  a  healthy 
type,  while  the  organisms  which  flourish  in  decay 
and  darkness,  such  as  the  fungi  of  which  I  saw  so 
strange  an  exami)le,  the  larvte  which  prey  on  decay- 
ing matter,  the  soft  and  pallid  worm-like  forms 
that  tunnel  in  vegetable  ooze,  were  of  an  unhealthy 
type.  But  yet  these  creatures  are  as  much  the 
work  of  God  as  the  flowers  and  trees,  the  brisk  ani- 
mals which  we  love  to  see  about  us.  We  are  ob- 
liged in  self-defence  to  do  battle  with  the  creatures 


198  The  Thread  of  Gold 

which  menace  our  health;  we  do  not  question  our 
right  to  deprive  them  of  hfe  for  our  own  comfort; 
but  surely  with  this  analogy  before  us,  we  are 
equally  compelled  to  think  of  the  forms  of  moral 
evil,  with  all  their  dark  vitality,  as  the  work  of  God's 
hand.  It  is  a  sad  conclusion  to  be  obliged  to  draw, 
but  I  can  have  no  doubt  that  no  comprehensive  sys- 
tem of  philosophj'^  can  ever  be  framed,  which  does 
not  trace  the  vitality  of  what  we  call  evil  to  the  same 
hand  as  the  vitality  of  what  we  call  good.  I  have 
no  doubt  myself  of  the  supremacy  of  a  single 
power;  but  the  explanation  that  evil  came  into  the 
world  by  the  institution  of  free-will,  and  that  suffer- 
ing is  the  result  of  sin,  seems  to  me  to  be  wholly 
inadequate,  because  the  mystery  of  strife  and  pain 
and  death  is  "  far  older  than  any  history  which  is 
written  in  any  book."  The  mistake  that  we  make 
is  to  count  up  all  the  qualities  which  seem  to  pro- 
mote our  health  and  happiness,  and  to  invent  an 
anthropomorphic  figure  of  God,  whom  we  array 
upon  the  side  which  we  wish  to  prevail.  The  truth 
is  far  darker,  far  sterner,  far  more  mysterious.  The 
darkness  is  his  not  less  than  the  light;  selfishness 
and  sin  are  the  work  of  his  hand,  as  much  as  un- 
selfishness and  holiness.  To  call  this  attitude  of 
mind  pessimism,  and  to  say  that  it  can  only  end  in 
acquiescence  or  despair,  is  a  sin  against  truth.  A 
creed  that  does  not  take  this  thought  into  account  is 


Renewai.  199 

nothing  but  a  delusion,  with  which  we  try  to  be- 
guile the  seriousness  of  the  truth  which  we  dread; 
but  such  a  stern  belief  does  not  forbid  us  to  strug- 
gle and  to  strive ;  it  rather  bids  us  believe  that  effort 
is  a  law  of  our  natures,  that  we  are  bound  to  be  en- 
listed for  the  fight,  and  that  the  only  natures  that 
fail  are  those  that  refuse  to  take  a  side  at  all. 

There  is  no  indecision  in  nature,  though  there  is 
some  illusion.  The  very  star  that  rises,  pale  and 
serene,  above  the  darkening  thicket,  is  in  reality  a 
globe  wreathed  in  fiery  vapour,  the  centre  of  a 
throng  of  whirling  planets.  What  we  have  to  do 
is  to  see  as  deep  as  we  can  into  the  truth  of  things, 
not  to  invent  paradises  of  thought,  sheltered  gar- 
dens, from  which  grief  and  suffering  shall  tear  us, 
naked  and  protesting ;  but  to  gaze  into  the  heart  of 
God,  and  then  to  follow  as  faithfully  as  we  can  the 
imperative  voice  that  speaks  within  the  soul. 

XXXVII 

There  sometimes  falls  upon  me  a  great  hunger 
of  heart,  a  sad  desire  to  build  up  and  renew  some- 
thing— a  broken  building  it  may  be,  a  fading  flower, 
a  failing  institution,  a  ruinous  character.  I  feel  a 
great  and  vivid  pity  for  a  thing  which  sets  out  to 
be  so  bright  and  beautiful,  and  lapses  into  shapeless 
and  uncomely  neglect.     Sometimes,  indeed,  it  must 


200  The  Thread  of  Gold 

be  a  desolate  grief,  a  fruitless  sorrow:  as  when  a 
flower  that  has  stood  on  one's  table,  and  cheered  the 
air  with  its  freshness  and  fragrance,  begins  to 
droop,  and  to  grow  stained  and  sordid.  Or  I  see 
some  dying  creature,  a  wounded  animal;  or  even 
some  well-loved  friend  under  the  shadow  of  death, 
with  the  hue  of  health  fading,  the  dear  features 
sharpening  for  the  last  change;  and  then  one  can 
only  bow,  with  such  resignation  as  one  can  muster, 
before  the  dreadful  law  of  death,  pray  that  the  pas- 
sage may  not  be  long  or  dark,  and  try  to  dream  of 
the  bright  secrets  that  may  be  waiting  on  the  other 
side. 

But  sometimes  it  is  a  more  fruitful  sadness,  when 
one  feels  that  decay  can  be  arrested,  that  new  life 
can  be  infused ;  that  a  fresh  start  may  be  taken,  and 
a  life  may  be  beautifully  renewed,  and  be  even  the 
brighter,  one  dares  to  hope,  for  a  lapse  into  the 
dreary  ways  of  bitterness. 

This  sadness  is  most  apt  to  beset  those  who  have 
anything  to  do  with  the  work  of  education.  One 
feels  sometimes,  with  a  sudden  shiver,  as  when  the 
shadow  of  a  cloud  passes  over  a  sunlit  garden,  that 
many  elements  are  at  Avork  in  a  small  society;  that 
an  evil  secret  is  spreading  over  lives  that  were  peace- 
ful and  contented,  that  suspicion  and  disunion  and 
misunderstanding  are  springing  up,  like  poisonous 
weeds,  in  the  quite  corner  that  God  has  given  one 


Renewal  201 

to  dress  and  keep.  Then  perhaps  one  tries  to  put 
one's  hand  on  what  is  amiss;  sometimes  one  does 
too  much,  and  in  the  wrong  way ;  one  has  not  enough 
faith,  one  dares  not  leave  enough  to  God.  Or  from 
timidity  or  diffidence,  or  from  the  base  desire  not  to 
be  troubled,  from  the  poor  hope  that  perhaps  things 
will  straighten  themselves  out,  one  does  too  little; 
and  that  is  the  worst  shadow  of  all,  the  shadow  of 
cowardice  or  sloth. 

Sometimes,  too,  one  has  the  grief  of  seeing  a  slow 
and  subtle  change  passing  over  the  manner  and  face 
of  one  for  whom  one  cares — not  the  change  of 
languor  or  physical  weakness ;  that  can  be  pityingly 
borne;  but  one  sees  innocence  withering,  indiffer- 
ence to  things  wholesome  and  fair  creeping  on, 
even  sometimes  a  ripe  and  evil  sort  of  beauty  ma- 
turing, such  as  comes  of  looking  at  evil  unashamed, 
and  seeing  its  strong  seductiveness.  One  feels  in- 
stinctively that  the  door  which  had  been  open  be- 
fore between  such  a  soul  and  one's  own  spirit  is 
being  slowly  and  firmly  closed,  or  even,  if  one  at- 
tempts to  open  it,  pulled  to  with  a  swift  motion; 
and  then  one  may  hear  sounds  within,  and  even  see, 
in  that  moment,  a  rush  of  gliding  forms,  that  makes 
one  sure  that  a  visitant  is  there,  who  has  brought 
with  him  a  wicked  companj?-;  and  then  one  has  to 
wait  in  sadness,  with  now  and  then  a  timid  knock- 
ing, even  happy,  it  may  be,  if  the  soul  sometimes 


202  The  Thread  of  Gold 

call  fretfully  within,  to  say  that  it  is  occupied  and 
cannot  come  forth. 

But  sometimes,  God  be  praised,  it  is  the  other  way. 
A  year  ago  a  man  came  at  his  own  request  to  see 
me.  I  hardly  knew  him;  but  I  could  see  at  once 
that  he  was  in  the  grip  of  some  hard  conflict,  which 
withered  his  natural  bloom.  I  do  not  know  how 
all  came  to  be  revealed ;  but  in  a  little  while  he  was 
speaking  with  simple  frankness  and  naturalness  of 
all  his  troubles,  and  they  were  many.  What  was 
the  most  touching  thing  of  all  was  that  he  spoke  as 
if  he  were  quite  alone  in  his  experience,  isolated  and 
shut  off  from  his  kind,  in  a  peculiar  horror  of  dark- 
ness and  doubt;  as  if  the  thoughts  and  difficulties 
at  which  he  stumbled  had  never  strewn  a  human 
path  before.  I  said  but  little  to  him;  and,  indeed, 
there  was  but  little  to  say.  It  was  enough  that  he 
should  "  cleanse  the  stuff'd  bosom  of  the  perilous 
stuff  that  weighs  upon  the  heart."  I  tried  to  make 
him  feel  that  he  was  not  alone  in  the  matter,  and 
that  other  feet  had  trodden  the  dark  path  before 
him.  ISTo  advice  is  possible  in  such  cases;  "  therein 
the  patient  must  minister  to  himself  " ;  the  solution 
lies  in  the  mind  of  the  sufferer.  He  knows  what  he 
ought  to  do;  the  difficulty  is  for  him  sufficiently  to 
desire  to  do  it;  yet  even  to  speak  frankly  of  cares 
and  troubles  is  very  often  to  melt  and  disperse  the 
morbid  mist  that  gathers  round  them,  which  grows 


Renewal  203 

in  solitude.  To  state  them  makes  them  plain  and 
simple ;  and,  indeed,  it  is  more  than  that ;  for  I  have 
often  noticed  that  the  mere  act  of  formulating  one's 
difficulties  in  the  hearing  of  one  who  symxoathises 
and  feels,  often  brings  the  solution  with  it.  One 
finds,  like  Christian  in  Doubting  Castle,  the  key 
which  has  lain  in  one's  bosom  all  the  time — the  key 
of  Promise;  and  when  one  has  finished  the  recital 
one  is  lost  in  bewilderment  that  one  ever  was  in  any 
doubt  at  all. 

A  year  has  passed  since  that  date,  and  I  have  had 
the  happiness  of  seeing  health  and  contentment 
stream  back  into  the  man's  face.  He  has  not  over- 
come, he  has  not  won  an  easy  triumph ;  but  he  is  in 
the  way  now,  not  wandering  on  trackless  hills. 

So,  in  the  mood  of  which  I  spoke  at  first — the 
mood  in  which  one  desires  to  build  up  and  renew 
— one  must  not  yield  one's  self  to  luxurious  and  pa- 
thetic reveries,  or  allow  one's  self  to  muse  and  Avon- 
der  in  the  half-lit  region  in  which  one  maj^  beat  one's 
wings  in  vain — the  region,  I  mean,  of  sad  stupefac- 
tion as  to  why  the  world  is  so  full  of  broken 
dreams,  shattered  hopes,  and  unfulfilled  possibili- 
ties. One  must  rather  look  round  for  some  little 
definite  failure  that  is  within  the  circle  of  one's 
vision.  And  even  so,  there  sometimes  comes  what 
is  the  most  evil  and  subtle  temptation  of  all,  which 
creeps  upon  the  mind  in  lowly  guise,  and  preaches 


204!  The  Thread  of  Gold 

inaction.  What  concern  have  you,  says  the  tempt- 
ing voice,  to  meddle  with  the  hves  and  characters 
of  others — to  guide,  to  direct,  to  help — when  there 
is  so  much  that  is  bitterly  amiss  with  your  own  heart 
and  life?  How  will  you  dare  to  preach  what  you 
do  not  practise?  The  answer  of  the  brave  heart  is 
that,  if  one  is  aware  of  failure,  if  one  has  suffered, 
if  one  has  gathered  experience,  one  must  be  ready 
to  share.  If  I  falter  and  stumble  under  my  own 
heavy  load,  which  I  have  borne  so  querulously,  so 
clumsily,  shall  not  I  say  a  word  which  can  help  a 
fellow-sufferer  to  bear  his  load  more  easily,  help 
him  to  avoid  the  mistakes,  the  falls  into  which  my 
own  perversity  has  betrayed  me?  To  make  an- 
other's burden  lighter  is  to  lighten  one's  own  bur- 
den; and,  sinful  as  it  may  be  to  err,  it  is  still  more 
sinful  to  see  another  err  and  be  silent,  to  withhold 
the  word  that  might  save  him.  Perhaps  no  one  can 
help  so  much  as  one  that  has  suffered  himself,  who 
knows  the  turns  of  the  sad  road,  and  the  trenches 
w^hich  beset  the  way. 

For  thus  comes  most  truly  the  joy  of  repentance; 
it  is  joy  to  feel  that  one's  own  lesson  is  learned,  and 
that  the  feeble  feet  are  a  little  stronger;  but  if  one 
may  also  feel  that  another  has  taken  heed,  has  been 
saved  the  fall  that  must  have  come  if  he  had  not 
been  warned,  one  does  not  grudge  one's  own  pain, 
that  has  brought  a  blessing  mth  it,  that  is  outside 


The  Secret  205 

of  one's  own  blessing ;  one  hardly  even  grudges  the 
sin. 

XXXVIII 

I  HAVE  been  away  from  my  books  lately,  in  a 
land  of  downs  and  valleys;  I  have  walked  much 
alone,  or  with  a  silent  companion — that  greatest 
of  all  luxuries.  And,  as  is  always  the  case  when 
I  get  out  of  the  reach  of  books,  I  feel  that  I  read 
a  great  deal  too  much,  and  do  not  meditate  enough. 
It  sounds  indolent  advice  to  say  that  one  ought  to 
meditate;  but  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  reading  is 
often  a  still  more  indolent  affair.  When  I  am 
alone,  or  at  leisure  among  my  books  I  take  a  vol- 
ume down;  and  the  result  is  that  another  man  does 
my  thinking  for  me.  It  is  like  putting  one's  self  in  a 
comfortable  railway  carriage;  one  runs  sm.oothly 
along  the  iron  track,  one  stops  at  specified  stations, 
one  sees  a  certain  range  of  country,  and  an  abund- 
ance of  pretty  things  in  flashes — too  many,  indeed, 
for  the  mind  to  digest;  and  that  is  the  reason,  I 
think,  why  a  modern  journey,  even  with  all  the 
luxuries  that  surround  it,  is  so  tiring  a  thing.  But 
to  meditate  is  to  take  one's  own  path  among  the 
hills;  one  turns  off  the  track  to  examine  anj^thing 
that  attracts  the  attention;  one  makes  the  most  of 
the  few  things  that  one  sees. 


206  The  Thread  of  Gold 

Reading  is  often  a  mere  saving  of  trouble,  a 
soporific  for  a  restless  brain.  This  last  week,  as 
I  say,  I  have  had  very  few  books  with  me.  One 
of  the  few  has  been  Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  and 
I  have  read  it  from  end  to  end.  I  want  to  say  a 
few  words  about  the  book  first,  and  then  to  diverge 
to  a  larger  question.  I  have  read  the  poem  with  a 
certain  admiration;  it  is  a  large,  strong,  rugged, 
violent  thing.  I  have,  however,  read  it  without 
emotion,  except  that  a  few  of  the  similes  in  it,  which 
lie  hke  shells  on  a  beach  of  sand,  have  pleased  me. 
Yet  it  is  not  true  to  say  that  I  have  read  it  without 
emotion,  because  I  have  read  it  with  anger  and  in- 
dignation. I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
book  has  done  a  great  deal  of  harm.  It  is  respon- 
sible, I  think,  for  a  great  many  of  the  harsh,  busi- 
ness-like, dismal  views  of  religion  that  prevail 
among  us.  JNIilton  treated  God,  the  Saviour,  and 
the  angels,  from  the  point  of  view  of  a  scholar  who 
had  read  the  Iliad.  I  declare  that  I  think  that  the 
passages  where  God  the  Father  speaks,  discusses 
the  situation  of  afi^airs,  and  arranges  matters  with 
the  Saviour,  are  some  of  the  most  profane  and 
vicious  passages  in  English  literature.  I  do  not 
want  to  be  profane  myself,  because  it  is  a  disgusting 
fault ;  but  the  passage  where  the  scheme  of  Redemp- 
tion is  arranged,  where  God  enquires  whether  any 
of  the  angels  will  undergo  death  in  order  to  satisfy 


The  Secret  207 

his  sense  of  Injured  justice,  is  a  passage  of  what  I 
can  only  call  stupid  brutality,  disguised,  alas,  in 
the  solemn  and  majestic  robe  of  sonorous  language. 
The  angels  timidly  decline,  and  the  Saviour  volun- 
teers, which  saves  the  shameful  situation.  The 
character  of  God,  as  displayed  by  Milton,  is  that  of 
a  commercial,  complacent,  irritable  Puritan.  There 
is  no  largeness  or  graciousness  about  it,  no  wistful 
love.  He  keeps  his  purposes  to  himself,  and  when 
his  arrangements  break  down,  as  indeed  they  de- 
serve to  do,  some  one  has  got  to  be  punished.  If 
the  guilty  ones  cannot,  so  much  the  worse;  an  in- 
nocent victim  will  do,  but  a  victim  there  must  be. 
It  is  a  wicked,  an  abominable  passage,  and  I  would 
no  more  allow  an  intelligent  child  to  read  it  than 
I  would  allow  him  to  read  an  obscene  book. 

Then,  again,  the  passage  where  the  rebel  angels 
cast  cannon,  make  gunpowder,  and  mow  the  good 
angels  down  in  rows,  is  incredibly  puerile  and  ridic- 
ulous. The  hateful  materialism  of  the  whole  thing 
is  patent.  I  wish  that  the  English  Church  could 
have  an  Index,  and  put  Paradise  Lost  upon  it,  and 
allow  no  one  to  read  it  until  he  had  reached  years  of 
discretion,  and  then  only  with  a  certificate,  and  for 
purely  literary  purposes. 

It  is  a  terrible  instance  how  strong  a  thing  Art  is ; 
the  grim  old  author,  master  of  every  form  of  ugly 
vituperation,  had  drifted  miserably  away  from  his 


208  The  Thread  of  Gold 

beautiful  j^outh,  when  he  wrote  the  sweet  poems  and 
sonnets  that  make  the  pedestal  for  his  fame;  and 
on  that  delicate  pedestal  stands  this  hideous  iron 
figure,  with  its  angry  gestures,  its  sickening 
strength. 

I  could  pile  up  indignant  instances  of  the  further 
harm  the  book  has  done.  Who  but  Milton  is  re- 
sponsible for  the  hard  and  shameful  view  of  the 
position  of  woman?  He  represents  her  as  a  cling- 
ing, soft,  compliant  creature,  whose  only  ideal  is  to 
be  to  make  things  comfortable  for  her  husband,  and 
to  submit  to  his  embraces.  INIilton  spoilt  the  lives 
of  all  the  women  he  had  to  do  with,  by  making  them 
into  slaves,  with  the  same  consciousness  of  rectitude 
with  which  he  whipped  his  nephews,  the  sound  of 
whose  cries  made  his  poor  girl-wife  so  miserable. 
But  I  do  not  want  to  go  further  into  the  question 
of  JNIilton  himself.  I  want  to  follow  out  a  wider 
thought  which  came  to  me  among  the  downs  to-day. 

There  seems  to  me  to  be  in  art,  to  take  the 
metaphor  of  the  temple  at  Jerusalem,  three  grada- 
tions or  regions,  which  maj^  be  typified  by  the  Court, 
the  Holy  Place,  and  the  Holy  of  Hohes.  Into  the 
Court  many  have  admittance,  both  writers  and 
readers;  it  is  just  shut  off  from  the  world,  but  ad- 
mittance is  easy  and  common.  All  who  are  moved 
and  stirred  by  ideas  and  images  can  enter  here. 
Then  there  is  the  Holy  Place,  dark  and  glorious. 


The  Secret  209 

where  the  candlestick  glimmers  and  the  altar 
gleams.  And  to  this  place  the  priests  of  art  have 
access.  Here  are  to  be  found  all  delicate  and 
strenuous  craftsmen,  all  who  understand  that  there 
are  secrets  and  mysteries  in  art.  They  can  please 
and  thrill  the  mind  and  ear;  they  can  offer  up  a 
fragrant  incense;  but  the  full  mystery  is  not  re- 
vealed to  them.  Here  are  to  be  found  many  grace- 
ful and  soulless  poets,  many  writers  of  moving 
tales,  and  discriminating  critics,  who  are  satisfied, 
but  cannot  satisfy.  Those  who  frequent  this  place 
are  generally  of  opinion  that  they  know  all  that  is 
to  be  known;  they  talk  much  of  form  and  colour, 
of  values  and  order.  They  can  make  the  most  of 
their  materials ;  and  indeed  their  skill  outruns  their 
emotion. 

But  there  is  the  Inmost  shrine  of  all  within,  where 
the  darkness  broods,  lit  at  intervals  by  the  shining 
of  a  divine  light,  that  glimmers  on  the  ark  and 
touches  the  taper  wings  of  the  adoring  angels.  The 
contents  indeed  of  the  sacred  chest  are  of  the 
simplest ;  a  withered  branch,  a  i^ot  of  food,  two  slabs 
of  grey  stone,  obscurely  engraved.  Nothing  rich 
or  rare.  But  those  who  have  access  to  the  inner 
shrine  are  face  to  face  with  the  mystery.  Some 
have  the  skill  to  hint  it,  none  to  describe  it.  And 
there  are  some,  too,  who  have  no  skill  to  express 
themselves,  but  who  have  visited  the  place,   and 


210  The  Thre^\d  of  Gold 

bring  back  some  touch  of  radiance  gushing  from 
their  brows. 

]Milton,  in  his  youth,  had  looked  within  the  shrine, 
but  he  forgot,  in  the  clamorous  and  sordid  world, 
what  he  had  seen.  Only  those  who  have  visited  the 
Holiest  place  know  those  others  who  have  set  foot 
there,  and  they  cannot  err.  I  cannot  define  exactly 
what  it  is  that  makes  the  difference.  It  cannot  be 
seen  in  performance;  for  here  I  will  humbly  and 
sincerely  make  the  avowal  that  I  have  been  within 
the  veil  mj^self,  though  I  know  not  when  or  how. 
I  learned  there  no  perfection  of  skill,  no  methods  of 
expression.  But  ever  since,  I  have  looked  out  for 
the  signs  that  tell  me  whether  another  has  set  foot 
there  or  no.  I  sometimes  see  the  sign  in  a  book,  or 
a  picture ;  sometimes  it  comes  out  in  talk ;  and  some- 
times I  discern  it  in  the  glance  of  an  eye,  for  all  the 
silence  of  the  lips.  It  is  not  knowledge,  it  is  not 
pride  that  the  access  confers.  Indeed  it  is  often  a 
sweet  humility  of  soul.  It  is  nothing  definite;  but 
it  is  a  certain  attitude  of  mind,  a  certain  quality  of 
thought.  Some  of  those  who  have  been  within  are 
very  sinful  persons,  very  unhappy,  very  unsatis- 
factory, as  the  world  would  say.  But  they  are 
never  perverse  or  wilful  natures;  they  are  never 
cold  or  mean.  Those  in  whom  coldness  and  mean- 
ness are  found  are  of  necessity  excluded  from  the 
Presence.     But  though  the  power  to  step  behind 


The  Secret  211 

the  veil  seldom  brings  serenity,  or  strength,  or  con- 
fidence, yet  it  is  the  best  thing  that  can  happen 
to  a  man  in  the  world. 

Some  i)erhaps  of  those  who  read  these  words  will 
think  that  it  is  all  a  vain  shadow,  and  that  I  am  but 
wrapping  up  an  empty  thought  in  veils  of  words. 
But  though  I  cannot  explain,  though  I  cannot  say 
what  the  secret  is,  I  can  claim  to  be  able  to  say  al- 
most without  hesitation  whether  a  human  spirit  has 
passed  within;  and  more  than  that.  As  I  write 
these  words,  I  know  that  if  any  who  have  set  foot  in 
the  secret  shrine  read  them,  they  will  under- 
stand, and  recognise  that  I  am  speaking  a  simj)le 
truth. 

Some,  indeed,  find  their  way  thither  through  re- 
ligion; but  none  whose  religion  is  like  ]\Iilton's. 
Indeed,  part  of  the  wonder  of  the  secret  is  the  in- 
finite number  of  j^aths  that  lead  there;  they  are  all 
lonely;  the  moment  is  unexpected;  indeed,  as  was 
the  case  with  myself,  it  is  possible  to  set  foot  within, 
and  yet  not  to  know  it  at  the  time. 

It  is  this  secret  which  constitutes  the  innermost 
brotherhood  of  the  world.  The  innermost,  I  say, 
because  neither  creed,  nor  nationality,  nor  occupa- 
tion, nor  age,  nor  sex  affects  the  matter.  It  is  dif- 
ficult, or  shall  I  say  unusual,  for  the  old  to  enter; 
and  most  find  the  way  there  in  j^outh,  before 
habit    and    convention    have    become    tyrannous. 


212  The  Thread  of  Gold 

and  have  fenced  the  i)ath  of  life  with  hedges  and 
walls. 

Again  it  is  the  most  secret  brotherhood  of  the 
world;  no  one  can  dare  to  make  public  proclama- 
tion of  it,  no  one  can  gather  the  saints  together,  for 
the  essence  of  the  brotherhood  is  its  isolation.  One 
may  indeed  recognise  a  brother  or  a  sister,  and  that 
is  a  blessed  moment;  but  one  must  not  speak  of  it 
in  words;  and  indeed  there  is  no  need  of  words, 
where  all  that  matters  is  known.  It  may  be  asked 
what  are  the  benefits  which  this  secret  brings.  It 
does  not  bring  laughter,  or  prosperity,  or  success, 
or  even  cheerfulness;  but  it  brings  a  high,  though 
fitful,  joy — a  joy  that  can  be  captured,  practised, 
retained.  No  one  can,  I  think,  of  set  purpose,  cap- 
ture the  secret.  No  one  can  find  the  way  by  desir- 
ing it.  And  yet  the  desire  to  do  so  is  the  seed  of 
hope.  And  if  it  be  asked,  why  I  write  and  print 
these  veiled  words  about  so  deep  and  intimate  a 
mystery,  I  would  reply  that  it  is  because  not  all  who 
have  found  the  way,  know  that  they  have  found  it ; 
and  my  hope  is  that  these  words  of  mine  may  show 
some  restless  hearts  that  they  have  found  it.  For 
one  may  find  the  shrine  in  youth,  and  for  want  of 
knowing  that  one  has  found  it,  may  forget  it  in 
middle  age;  and  that  is  what  I  sorrowfully  think 
that  not  a  few  of  my  brothers  do.  And  the  sign 
of  such  a  loss  is  that  such  persons  speak  contempt- 


The  Secret  213 

uously  and  disdainfully  of  their  visions,  and  try  to 
laugh  and  deride  the  young  and  gracious  out  of 
such  hopes ;  which  is  a  sin  that  is  hateful  to  God,  a 
kind  of  murder  of  souls. 

And  now  I  have  travelled  a  long  way  from  where 
I  began,  but  the  path  was  none  of  my  own  making. 
It  was  Milton,  that  fierce  and  childish  poet,  that 
held  open  the  door,  and  within  I  saw  the  ladder,  at 
the  fiery  head  of  which  is  God  himself.  And  like 
Jacob  (who  was  indeed  of  our  company)  I  made  a 
pillow  for  my  head  of  the  stones  of  the  place,  that  I 
might  dream  more  abundantly. 

And  so,  as  I  walked  to-day  among  the  green 
places  of  the  doA\Ti,  I  made  a  prayer  in  my  heart  to 
God,  the  matter  of  which  I  will  now  set  down ;  and 
it  was  that  all  of  us  who  have  visited  that  most  Holy 
Place  may  be  true  to  the  vision ;  and  that  God  may 
reveal  us  to  each  other,  as  we  go  on  pilgrimage ;  and 
that  as  the  world  goes  forward,  he  may  lead  more 
and  more  souls  to  visit  it,  that  bare  and  secret  place, 
which  yet  holds  more  beauty  than  the  richest  palace 
of  the  world.  For  palaces  but  hold  the  outer 
beauty  in  types  and  glimpses  and  similitudes. 
While  in  secret  shrine  we  visit  the  central  fountain- 
head,  from  which  the  water  of  life,  clear  as  crystal, 
breaks  in  innumerable  channels,  and  flows  out  from 
beneath  the  temple  door,  as  Ezekiel  saw  it  flow, 
lingering  and  delaying,  but  surely  coming  to  glad- 


214  The  Thread  of  Gold 

den  the  earth.  I  could  indeed  go  further,  and  speak 
many  things  out  of  a  full  heart  about  the  matter. 
I  could  quote  the  names  of  many  poets  and  artists, 
great  and  small ;  and  I  could  say  which  of  them  be- 
longs to  the  inner  company,  and  which  of  them  is 
outside.  But  I  will  not  do  this,  because  it  would 
but  set  inquisitive  people  puzzling  and  wondering, 
and  trying  to  guess  the  secret;  and  that  I  have  no 
desire  to  do;  because  these  words  are  not  written 
to  make  those  who  do  not  understand  to  be  curious ; 
but  they  are  written  to  those  who  know,  and,  most 
of  all,  to  those  who  know  but  have  forgotten.  No 
one  may  traffic  in  these  things;  and  indeed  there  is 
no  ojDportunity  to  do  so.  I  could  learn  in  a  mo- 
ment, from  a  sentence  or  a  smile,  if  one  had  the 
secret;  and  I  could  spend  a  long  summer  day  try- 
ing to  explain  it  to  a  learned  and  intelligent  person, 
and  yet  give  no  hint  of  what  I  meant.  For  the 
thing  is  not  an  intelligible  process,  a  matter  of  rea- 
soning and  logic ;  it  is  an  intuition.  And  therefore 
it  is  that  those  who  cannot  believe  in  anything  that 
they  do  not  understand,  will  think  these  words  of 
mine  to  be  folly  and  vanity.  The  only  case  where 
I  have  found  a  difficulty  in  deciding,  is  when  I  talk 
to  one  who  has  lived  much  with  those  who  had  the 
secret,  and  has  caught,  by  a  kind  of  natural  imita- 
tion, some  of  the  accent  and  cadence  of  the  truth. 
An  old  friend  of  mine,  a  pious  woman,  used  in  her 


The  Secret  215 

last  days  to  have  prayers  and  hymns  read  much  in 
her  room;  there  was  a  parrot  that  sat  there  in  his 
cage,  very  silent  and  attentive;  and  not  long  after, 
when  the  parrot  was  ill,  he  used  to  mutter  prayers 
and  hymns  aloud,  with  a  devotion  that  would  have 
deceived  the  very  elect.  And  it  is  even  so  with  the 
people  of  whom  I  have  spoken.  Not  long  ago  I 
had  a  long  conversation  with  one,  a  clever  woman, 
who  had  lived  much  in  the  house  of  a  man  who  had 
seen  the  truth;  and  I  was  for  a  little  deceived,  and 
thought  that  she  also  knew  the  truth.  But  sud- 
denly she  made  a  hard  judgment  of  her  own,  and  I 
knew  in  a  moment  that  she  had  never  seen  the 
shrine. 

And  now  I  have  said  enough,  and  must  make 
an  end.  I  remember  that  long  ago,  when  I  was  a 
boy,  I  painted  a  picture  on  a  panel,  and  set  it  in 
my  room.  It  was  the  figure  of  a  kneeling  youth  on 
a  hillock,  looking  upwards;  and  beyond  the  hillock 
came  a  burst  of  rays  from  a  hidden  sun.  Under- 
neath it,  for  no  reason  that  I  can  well  explain,  I 
painted  the  words  ^w<;  iOeaaafju^v  Kat  eix<po(3o<s  rjv' — /  he- 
held  a  light  and  was  afraid.  I  was  then  very  far 
indeed  from  the  sight  of  the  truth ;  but  I  know  now 
that  I  was  prophesying  of  what  should  be;  for  the 
secret  sign  of  the  mystery  is  a  fear,  not  a  timid  and 
shrinking  fear,  but  a  holy  and  transfiguring  awe. 
I  httle  guessed  what  would  some  day  befall  me; 


216  The  Thread  of  Gold 

but  now  that  I  have  seen,  I  can  only  say  with  all 
my  heart  that  it  is  better  to  remember  and  be  sad, 
than  to  forget  and  smile. 

XXXIX 

I  WAS  awakened  this  morning,  at  the  old  house 
where  I  am  staying,  by  low  and  sweet  singing. 
The  soft  murmur  of  an  organ  was  audible,  on  which 
some  clear  trebles  seemed  to  swim  and  float — one 
voice  of  great  richness  and  force  seeming  to  utter 
the  words,  and  to  draw  into  itself  the  other  voices, 
appropriating  their  tone  but  lending  them  person- 
ality.    These  were  the  words  I  heard — 

"  The  High  Priest  once  a  year 
Went  in  the  Holy  Place 
With  garments  white  and  clear, 
It  was  the  day  of  Grace. 

Without  the  people  stood. 

While  unseen  and  alone 
With  incense  and  with  blood 

He  did  for  them  atone. 

So  we  without  abide 

A  few  short  passing  years, 
While  Christ  who  for  us  died 

Before  our  God  appears. 

Before  His  Father  there 

His  sacrifice  He  pleads, 
And  with  unceasing  prayer 

For  us  He  intercedes." 


The  Message  217 

The  sweet  sounds  ceased;  the  organ  lingered  for 
an  instant  in  a  low  chord  of  infinite  sweetness,  and 
then  a  voice  was  heard  in  prayer.  That  there  was 
a  chapel  in  the  house  I  knew,  and  that  a  brief  morn- 
ing prayer  was  read  there.  But  I  could  not  help 
wondering  at  the  remarkable  distinctness  with 
which  I  heard  the  words — they  seemed  close  to  my 
ear  in  the  air  beside  me.  I  got  up,  and  drawing 
my  curtains  found  that  it  was  day;  and  then  I  saw 
that  a  tiny  window  in  the  corner  of  my  room,  that 
gave  on  the  gallery  of  the  chapel,  had  been  left 
open,  by  accident  or  design,  and  that  thus  I  had 
been  an  auditor  of  the  service. 

I  found  myself  pondering  over  the  words  of  the 
hymn,  which  was  familiar  to  me,  though  strangelj^ 
enough  is  to  be  found  in  but  few  collections.  It  is 
a  perfect  lyric,  both  in  its  grave  language  and  its 
beautiful  balance;  and  it  is  too,  so  far  as  such  a 
composition  can  be,  or  ought  to  be,  intensely  dra- 
matic. The  thought  is  just  touched,  and  stated 
with  exquisite  brevity  and  restraint;  there  is  not  a 
word  too  much  or  too  little ;  the  image  is  swiftly  pre- 
sented, the  inner  meaning  flashed  upon  the  mind. 
It  seemed  to  me,  too,  a  beautiful  and  desirable 
thing  to  begin  the  day  thus,  with  a  delicate  hallow- 
ing of  the  hours ;  to  put  one  gentle  thought  into  the 
heart,  perfumed  by  the  sweet  music.  But  then  my 
reflections  took  a  further  drift ;  beautiful  as  the  lit- 


218  The  Thread  of  Gold 

tie  ceremony  was,  noble  and  refined  as  the  thought 
of  the  tender  hymn  was,  I  began  to  wonder  whether 
we  do  well  to  confine  our  religious  fife  to  so 
restricted  a  range  of  ideas.  It  seemed  almost  un- 
grateful to  entertain  the  thought,  but  I  felt  a  cer- 
tain bewilderment  as  to  whether  this  remote  image, 
drawn  from  the  ancient  sacrificial  ceremony,  was 
not  even  too  definite  a  thought  to  feed  the  heart 
upon.  For  strip  the  idea  of  its  fair  accessories,  its 
delicate  art,  and  what  have  we  but  the  sad  belief, 
drawn  from  the  dark  ages  of  the  world,  that  the 
wrathful  Creator  of  men,  full  of  gloomy  indigna- 
tion at  their  perverseness  and  wilfulness,  needs  the 
constant  intercession  of  the  Eternal  Son,  who  is 
too,  in  a  sense,  himself,  to  appease  the  anger  with 
which  he  regards  the  sheep  of  his  hand.  I  cannot 
really  in  the  depths  of  my  heart  echo  that  dark  be- 
lief. I  do  not  indeed  know  why  God  permits  such 
blindness  and  sinfulness  among  men,  and  why  he 
allows  suffering  to  cloud  and  darken  the  world. 
But  it  would  cause  me  to  despair  of  God  and  man 
alike,  if  I  felt  that  he  had  flung  our  pitiful  race  into 
the  world,  surrounded  by  temptation  both  within 
and  without,  and  then  abandoned  himself  to  anger 
at  their  miserable  dalliance  with  evil.  I  rather  be- 
lieve that  we  are  rising  and  struggling  to  the  light, 
and  that  his  heart  is  with  us,  not  against  us  in  the 
battle.     It  may  of  course  be  said  that  all  that  kind 


The  Message  219 

of  Calvinism  has  disappeared;  that  no  rational 
Christians  believe  it,  but  hold  a  larger  and  a  wider 
faith.  I  think  that  this  is  true  of  a  few  intelligent 
Christians,  as  far  as  the  dropping  of  Calvinism 
goes,  though  it  seems  to  me  that  they  find  it  some- 
what difficult  to  define  their  faith;  but  as  to  Cal- 
vinism having  died  out  in  England,  I  do  not  think 
that  there  is  any  reason  to  suppose  that  it  has  done 
so;  I  believe  that  a  large  majority  of  English 
Christians  would  believe  the  above-quoted  hymn  to 
be  absolutely  justified  in  its  statements  both  by 
Scripture  and  reason,  and  that  a  considerable  min- 
ority would  hardly  consider  it  definite  enough. 

But  then  came  a  larger  and  a  wider  thought. 
We  talk  and  think  so  carelessly  of  the  divine  revela- 
tion ;  we,  who  have  had  a  religious  bringing  up,  who 
have  been  nurtured  upon  Israelite  chronicles  and 
prophecies,  are  inclined,  or  at  least  predisposed,  to 
think  that  the  knowledge  of  God  is  written  larger 
and  more  directly  in  these  records,  the  words  of 
anxious  and  troubled  persons,  than  in  the  world 
which  we  see  about  us.  Yet  surelj^  in  field  and 
wood,  in  sea  and  sky,  we  have  a  far  nearer  and  more 
instant  revelation  of  God.  In  these  ancient  re- 
cords we  have  the  thoughts  of  men,  intent  upon  their 
own  schemes  and  struggles,  and  looking  for  the 
message  of  God,  with  a  fixed  belief  that  the  history 
of  one  family  of  the  human  race  was  his  special  and 


220  The  Thread  of  Gold 

particular  prepossession.  Yet  all  the  while  his  im- 
mediate Will  was  round  them,  written  in  a  thousand 
forms,  in  bird  and  beast,  in  flower  and  tree.  He 
permits  and  tolerates  life.  He  deals  out  joy  and 
sorrow,  life  and  death.  Science  has  at  least  re- 
vealed a  far  more  vast  and  inscrutable  force  at  work 
in  the  world,  than  the  men  of  ancient  days  ever 
dreamed  of. 

Do  we  do  well  to  confine  our  religious  life  to 
these  ancient  conceptions?  They  have  no  doubt 
a  certain  shadow  of  truth  in  them;  but  while  I 
know  for  certain  that  the  huge  Will  of  God  is 
indeed  at  work  around  me,  in  every  field  and  wood, 
in  every  stream  and  j)ool,  do  I  really  know,  do  I 
honestly  believe  that  any  such  process  as  the  hymn 
indicates,  is  going  on  in  some  distant  region  of 
heaven?  The  hymn  practically  pre-supposes  that 
our  little  planet  is  the  only  one  in  which  the  work  of 
God  is  going  forward.  Science  hints  to  me  that 
probably  every  star  that  hangs  in  the  sky  has  its 
own  ring  of  planets,  and  that  in  every  one  of  these 
some  strange  drama  of  life  and  death  is  proceed- 
ing. It  is  a  dizzy  thought!  But  if  it  be  true,  is  it 
not  better  to  face  it?  The  mind  shudders,  appalled 
at  the  immensity  of  the  prospect.  But  do  not  such 
thoughts  as  these  give  us  a  truer  picture  of  our- 
selves, and  of  our  own  humble  place  in  the  vast 
complexity  of  things,  than  the  excessive  dwelling 


The  Message  221 

upon  the  wistful  dreams  of  ancient  law-givers  and 
prophets?  Or  is  it  better  to  delude  ourselves?  De- 
liberately to  limit  our  view  to  the  history  of  a  single 
race,  to  a  few  centuries  of  records?  Perhaps  that 
may  be  a  more  practical,  a  more  effective  view ;  but 
when  once  the  larger  thought  has  flashed  into  the 
mind,  it  is  useless  to  try  and  drown  it. 

Everything  around  me  seems  to  cry  aloud  the 
warning,  not  to  aim  at  a  conceit  of  knowledge  about 
these  deep  secrets,  but  to  wait,  to  leave  the  windows 
of  the  soul  open  for  any  glimpse  of  truth  from 
without. 

To  beguile  the  time  I  took  up  a  volume  near  me, 
the  work  of  a  much  decried  poet,  Walt  Whitman. 
Apart  from  the  exquisite  power  of  expression  that 
he  possesses,  he  always  seems  to  me  to  enter,  more 
than  most  poets,  into  the  largeness  of  the  world,  to 
keep  his  heart  fixed  on  the  vast  wonder  and  joy  of 
life.  I  read  that  poem  full  of  tender  pathos  and 
suggestiveness,  A  Word  out  of  the  Sea,  where  the 
child,  with  the  wind  in  his  hair,  listens  to  the  lament 
of  the  bird  that  has  lost  his  mate,  and  tries  to  guide 
her  wandering  wings  back  to  the  deserted  nest. 
While  the  bird  sings,  with  ever  fainter  hope,  its  lit- 
tle heart  aching  with  the  pain  of  loss,  the  child  hears 
the  sea,  with  its  "  liquid  rims  and  wet  sands " 
breathing  out  the  low  and  delicious  word  death. 

The  poet  seems  to  think  of  death  as  the  loving 


222  The  Thread  of  Gold 

answer  to  the  yearning  of  all  hearts,  the  sleep  that 
closes  the  weary  eyes.  But  I  cannot  rise  to  this 
thought,  tender  and  gentle  as  it  is. 

If  indeed  there  be  another  life  beyond  death,  I 
can  well  believe  that  death  is  in  truth  an  easier  and 
simpler  thing  than  one  fears;  only  a  cloud  on  the 
hill,  a  little  darkness  upon  Nature.  But  God  has 
put  it  into  my  heart  to  dread  it;  and  he  hides  from 
me  the  knowledge  of  whether  indeed  there  be  an- 
other side  to  it.  And  while  I  do  not  even  know  that, 
I  can  but  love  life,  and  be  fain  of  the  good  days. 
All  the  religion  in  the  world  depends  upon  the  be- 
lief that,  set  free  from  the  bonds  of  the  flesh,  the 
spirit  will  rest  and  recollect.  But  is  that  more  than 
a  hope?  Is  it  more  than  the  passionate  instinct  of 
the  heart  that  cannot  bear  the  thought  that  it  may 
cease  to  be? 

I  seem  to  have  travelled  far  away  from  the  hymn 
that  sounded  so  sweetlj^  in  my  ears ;  but  I  return  to 
the  thought;  is  not,  I  will  ask,  the  poet's  reverie — 
the  child  with  his  wet  hair  floating  in  the  sea-breeze, 
the  wailing  of  the  deserted  bird,  the  waves  that  mur- 
mur that  death  is  beautiful — is  not  this  all  more 
truly  and  deeply  religious  than  the  hymn  which 
speaks  of  things,  that  not  only  I  cannot  affii-m  to  be 
true,  but  which,  if  true,  would  plunge  me  into  a 
deeper  and  cheaper  hopelessness  even  than  that  in 
which  my  ignorance  condemns  me  to  live?     Ought 


The  Message  223 

we  not,  in  fact,  to  try  and  make  our  religion  a  much 
wider,  quieter  thing?  Are  we  not  exchanging  the 
melodies  of  the  free  birds  that  sing  in  the  forest 
glade,  for  the  melancholy  chirping  of  the  caged 
linnet?  It  seems  to  me  often  as  though  we  had 
captured  our  religion  from  a  multitude  of  fair  hov- 
ering presences,  that  would  speak  to  us  of  the 
things  of  God,  caged  it  in  a  tiny  prison,  and  closed 
our  ears  to  the  larger  and  wider  voices? 

I  walked  to-day  in  sheltered  wooded  valleys ;  and 
at  one  point,  in  a  very  lonely  and  secluded  lane, 
leaned  long  upon  a  gate  that  led  into  a  little  forest 
clearing,  to  watch  the  busy  and  intent  life  of  the 
wood.  There  were  the  trees  extending  their  fresh 
leaves  to  the  rain;  the  birds  slipj)ed  from  tree  to 
tree;  a  mouse  frisked  about  the  grassy  road;  a 
hundred  flowers  raised  their  bright  heads.  None 
of  these  little  lives  have,  I  suppose,  any  conception 
of  the  extent  of  life  that  lies  about  them;  each  of 
them  knows  the  secrets  and  instincts  of  its  own  tiny 
brain,  and  guesses  perhaps  at  the  thoughts  of  the 
little  lives  akin  to  it.  Yet  every  tiniest,  shortest, 
most  insignificant  life  has  its  place  in  the  mind  of 
God.  It  seemed  to  me  then  such  an  amazing,  such 
an  arrogant  thing  to  define,  to  describe,  to  limit  the 
awful  mystery  of  the  Creator  and  his  purpose. 
Even  to  think  of  him,  as  he  is  spoken  of  in  the  Old 
Testament,  with  fierce  and  vindictive  schemes,  with 


224  The  Thread  of  Gold 

flagrant  partialities,  seemed  to  me  nothing  but  a  ^ 

dreadful  profanation.     And  yet  these  old  writings  | 

do,  in  a  degree,  from  old  association,  colour  my  I 

thoughts  about  him.  | 

And  then  all  these  anxious  visions  left  me;  and  I  \ 

felt  for  awhile  like  a  tiny  spray  of  seaweed  floating  j 

on  an  infinite  sea,  with  the  brightness  of  the  morning  j 

overhead.     I  felt  that  I  was  indeed  set  where  I  ! 

found  myself  to  be,  and  that  if  now  my  little  heart 
and  brain  are  too  small  to  hold  the  truth,  yet  I 
thanked  God  for  making  even  the  conception  of  the 
mystery,  the  width,  the  depth,  possible  to  me ;  and  I 
prayed  to  him  that  he  would  give  me  as  much  of  the 
truth  as  I  could  bear.  And  I  do  not  doubt  that  he 
gave  me  that;  for  I  felt  for  an  instant  that  what- 
ever befall  me,  I  was  indeed  a  part  of  Himself ;  not 
a  thing  outside  and  separate;  not  even  liis  son  and 
his  child;  but  Himself. 


XL 


I  HAD  SO  strange  a  dream  or  vision  the  other 
night,  that  I  cannot  refrain  from  setting  it  down; 
because  the  strangeness  and  the  wonder  of  it  seem 
to  make  it  impossible  for  me  to  have  conceived  of  it 
myself;  it  was  suggested  by  nothing,  originated  by 
nothing  that  I  can  trace ;  it  merely  came  to  me  out 
of  the  void. 


After  Death  225 

After  confused  and  troubled  dreams  of  terror 
and  bewilderment,  enacted  in  blind  passages  and 
stifling  glooms,  with  crowds  of  unknown  figures 
passing  rapidly  to  and  fro,  I  seemed  to  grow  sud- 
denly light-hearted  and  joyful.  I  next  appeared 
to  myself  to  be  sitting  or  reclining  on  the  grassy  top 
of  a  cliff,  in  bright  sunlight.  The  ground  fell  pre- 
cipitously in  front  of  me,  and  I  saw  to  left  and 
right  the  sharp  crags  and  horns  of  the  rock-face 
below  me;  behind  me  was  a  wide  space  of  grassy 
down,  with  a  fresh  wind  racing  over  it.  The  sky 
was  cloudless.  Far  below  I  could  see  yellow  sands, 
on  which  a  blue  sea  broke  in  crisp  waves.  To  the 
left  a  river  flowed  through  a  little  hamlet,  clustered 
round  a  church;  I  looked  down  on  the  roofs  of  the 
small  houses,  and  saw  people  passing  to  and  fro, 
like  ants.  The  river  spread  itself  out  in  shallow 
shining  channels  over  the  sand,  to  join  the  sea. 
Further  to  the  left  rose  shadowy  headland  after 
headland,  and  to  the  right  lay  a  broad  well-watered 
plain,  full  of  trees  and  villages,  bounded  by  a  range 
of  blue  hills.  On  the  sea  moved  ships,  the  wind  fill- 
ing their  sails,  and  the  sun  shining  on  them  with  a 
peculiar  brightness.  The  only  sound  in  my  ears 
was  that  of  the  whisper  of  the  wdnd  in  the  grass  and 
stone  crags. 

But  I  soon  became  aware  with  a  shock  of  pleas- 
ant surprise  that  my  perception  of  the  whole  scene 

IS 


226  The  Thread  of  Gold 

was  of  a  different  quality  to  any  perception  I  had 
before  experienced.  I  have  spoken  of  seeing  and 
hearing:  but  I  became  aware  that  I  was  doing 
neither;  the  perceptions,  so  to  speak,  both  of  seeing 
and  hearing  were  not  distinct,  but  the  same.  I  was 
aware,  for  instance,  at  the  same  moment,  of  the 
whole  scene,  both  of  what  was  behind  me  and  what 
was  in  front  of  me.  I  have  described  what  I  saw 
successively,  because  there  is  no  other  way  of  de- 
scribing it ;  but  it  was  all  present  at  once  in  my  mind, 
and  I  had  no  need  to  turn  my  attention  to  one  point 
or  another,  but  everything  was  there  before  me,  in 
a  unity  at  which  I  cannot  even  hint  in  words.  I 
then  became  aware  too,  that,  though  I  have  spoken 
of  myself  as  seated  or  reclined,  I  had  no  body,  but 
was  merely,  as  it  were,  a  sentient  point.  In  a 
moment  I  became  aware  that  to  transfer  that  senti- 
ence to  another  point  was  merely  an  act  of  will.  I 
was  able  to  test  this ;  in  an  instant  I  was  close  above 
the  village,  which  a  moment  before  was  far  below 
me,  and  I  perceived  the  houses,  the  very  faces  of 
the  people  close  at  hand;  at  another  moment  I  was 
buried  deep  in  the  cliff,  and  felt  the  rock  with  its 
fissures  all  about  me ;  at  another  moment,  following 
my  wish,  I  was  beneath  the  sea,  and  saw  the  untrod- 
den sands  about  me,  with  the  blue  sunlit  water  over 
my  head.  I  saw  the  fish  dart  and  poise  above  me, 
the  ribbons  of  sea-weed  floating  up,  just  swayed 


After  Death  227 

by  the  currents,  shells  crawling  like  great  snails  on 
the  ooze,  crabs  hurrying  about  among  piles  of 
boulders.  But  something  drew  me  back  to  my  first 
station,  I  know  not  why;  and  there  I  poised,  as  a 
bird  might  have  poised,  and  lost  myself  in  a  blissful 
dream.  Then  it  darted  into  my  mind  that  I  was 
what  I  had  been  accustomed  to  call  dead.  So  tliis 
was  what  lay  on  the  other  side  of  the  dark  passage, 
this  lightness,  this  perfect  freedom,  this  undreamed- 
of peace!  I  had  not  a  single  care  or  anxiety.  It 
seemed  as  if  nothing  could  trouble  my  repose  and 
happiness.  I  could  only  think  with  a  deep  com- 
passion of  those  who  were  still  pent  in  uneasy  bod- 
ies, under  strait  and  sad  conditions,  anxious,  sad, 
troubled,  and  blind,  not  knowing  that  the  shadow 
of  death  which  encompassed  them  was  but  the  cloud 
which  veiled  the  gate  of  perfect  and  unutterable 
happiness. 

I  felt  rising  in  my  mind  a  sense  of  all  that  lay 
before  me,  of  all  the  mysteries  that  I  would  pene- 
trate, all  the  unvisited  places  that  I  would  see.  But 
at  present  I  was  too  full  of  peace  and  quiet  happi- 
ness to  do  anything  but  stay  in  an  infinite  content 
where  I  was.  All  sense  of  ennui  or  restlessness  had 
left  me.  I  was  utterly  free,  utterly  blest.  I  did,  in- 
deed, once  send  my  thought  to  the  home  which  I 
loved,  and  saw  a  darkened  house,  and  my  dear  ones 
moving  about  with  grief  written  legibly  on  their 


228  The  Thread  of  Gold 

faces.  I  saw  my  mother  sitting  looking  at  some 
letters  which  I  perceived  to  be  my  own,  and  was 
aware  that  she  wept.  But  I  could  not  even  bring 
myself  to  grieve  at  that,  because  I  knew  that  the 
same  peace  and  joy  that  filled  me  was  also  surely 
awaiting  them,  and  the  darkest  passage,  the  sharp- 
est human  suffering,  seemed  so  utterly  little  and 
trifling  in  the  light  of  my  new  knowledge;  and  I 
was  soon  back  on  my  cliff-top  again,  content  to 
wait,  to  rest,  to  luxuriate  in  a  happiness  which 
seemed  to  have  nothing  selfish  about  it,  because  the 
satisfaction  was  so  perfectly  pure  and  natural. 

While  I  thus  waited  I  became  aware,  with  the 
same  sort  of  sudden  perception,  of  a  presence  be- 
side me.  It  had  no  outward  form;  but  I  knew  that 
it  was  a  spirit  full  of  love  and  kindness:  it  seemed 
to  me  to  be  old;  it  was  not  divine,  for  it  brought  no 
awe  with  it ;  and  yet  it  was  not  quite  human ;  it  was 
a  spirit  that  seemed  to  me  to  have  been  human,  but 
to  have  risen  into  a  higher  sphere  of  perception.  I 
simply  felt  a  sense  of  deep  and  pure  companion- 
ship. And  presently  I  became  aware  that  some 
communication  was  passing  between  my  conscious- 
ness and  the  consciousness  of  the  newly-arrived 
spirit.  It  did  not  take  place  in  words,  but  in 
thought;  though  only  by  words  can  I  now  repre- 
sent it. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  other,  "  you  do  well  to  rest  and 


After  Death  229 

to  be  happy:  is  it  not  a  wonderful  experience?  and 
yet  you  have  been  through  it  many  times  already, 
and  will  pass  through  it  many  times  again." 

I  suppose  that  I  did  not  wholly  understand  this, 
for  I  said:  "  I  do  not  grasp  that  thought,  though 
I  am  certain  it  is  true:  have  I  then  died  before?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  other,  "  many  times.  It  is  a  long 
progress;  you  w^ll  remember  soon,  when  you  have 
had  time  to  reflect,  and  when  the  sweet  novelty  of 
the  change  has  become  more  customary.  You  have 
but  returned  to  us  again  for  a  little ;  one  needs  that, 
you  know,  at  first ;  one  needs  some  refreshment  and 
repose  after  each  one  of  our  lives,  to  be  renewed,  to 
be  strengthened  for  what  comes  after." 

All  at  once  I  understood.  I  knew  that  my  last 
life  had  been  one  of  many  lives  lived  at  all  sorts  of 
times  and  dates,  and  under  various  conditions ;  that 
at  the  end  of  each  I  had  returned  to  this  joyful 
freedom. 

It  was  the  first  cloud  that  passed  over  my 
thought.    "  Must  I  return  again  to  life?  "    I  said. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  other;  "you  see  that;  you 
will  soon  return  again — but  never  mind  that  now; 
you  are  here  to  drink  your  fill  of  the  beautiful 
things  which  you  will  only  remember  by  glimpses 
and  visions  when  you  are  back  in  the  little  life 
again." 

And  then  I  had  a  sudden  intuition.     I  seemed  to 


230  The  Thread  of  Gold 

be  suddenly  in  a  small  and  ugly  street  of  a  dark 
town.  I  saw  slatternly  women  run  in  and  out  of 
the  houses;  I  saw  smoke-stained  grimy  children 
playing  in  the  gutter.  Above  the  poor,  ill-kept 
houses  a  factory  poured  its  black  smoke  into  the 
air,  and  hummed  behind  its  shuttered  windows.  I 
knew  in  a  sad  flash  of  thought  that  I  was  to  be  born 
there,  to  be  brought  up  as  a  wailing  child,  under  sad 
and  sordid  conditions,  to  struggle  into  a  life  of  hard 
and  hopeless  labour,  in  the  midst  of  vice,  and  pov- 
erty, and  drunkenness,  and  hard  usage.  It  filled 
me  for  a  moment  with  a  sort  of  nauseous  dread,  re- 
membering the  free  and  liberal  conditions  of  my 
last  life,  the  wealth  and  comfort  I  had  enjoyed. 

"No,"  said  the  other;  for  in  a  moment  I  was 
back  again,  "  that  is  an  unworthy  thought — it  is 
but  for  a  moment ;  and  you  wdll  return  to  this  peace 
again." 

But  the  sad  thought  came  down  upon  me  like  a 
cloud.  "  Is  there  no  escape?  "  I  said;  and  at  that, 
in  a  moment,  the  other  spirit  seemed  to  chide  me, 
not  angrily,  but  patiently  and  compassionately. 
"  One  suifers,"  he  said,  "  but  one  gains  experience; 
one  rises,"  adding  more  gently:  "  We  do  not  know 
why  it  must  be,  of  course — but  it  is  the  Will;  and 
however  much  one  maj^  doubt  and  suffer  in  the 
dark  world  there,  one  does  not  doubt  of  the  wisdom 
or  the  love  of  it  here."     And  I  knew  in  a  moment 


After  Death  231 

that  I  did  not  doubt,  but  that  I  would  go  wilhngly 
wherever  I  should  be  sent. 

And  then  my  thought  became  concerned  with 
the  spirit  that  spoke  with  me,  and  I  said,  "  And 
what  is  your  place  and  work?  for  I  think  you  are 
like  me  and  yet  unlike."  And  he  said:  "  Yes,  it  is 
true;  I  have  to  return  thither  no  more;  that  is  fin- 
ished for  me,  and  I  grudge  no  single  step  of  the 
dark  road :  I  cannot  explain  to  you  what  my  work 
or  place  is;  but  I  am  old,  and  have  seen  many 
things ;  each  of  us  has  to  return  and  return,  not  in- 
deed till  we  are  made  perfect,  but  till  we  have 
finished  that  part  of  our  course;  but  the  blessed- 
ness of  this  peace  grows  and  grows,  while  it  be- 
comes easier  to  bear  what  happens  in  that  other 
place,  for  we  grow  strong  and  simple  and  sincere, 
and  then  the  world  can  hurt  us  but  little.  We 
learn  that  we  must  not  judge  men;  but  we  know 
that  when  we  see  them  cruel  and  vicious  and  selfish, 
they  are  then  but  children  learning  their  first  les- 
sons; and  on  each  of  our  visits  to  this  place  we  see 
that  the  evil  matters  less  and  less,  and  the  hope  be- 
comes brighter  and  brighter;  till  at  last  we  see." 
And  I  then  seemed  to  turn  to  him  in  thought,  for 
he  said  with  a  grave  joy:  "  Yes,  I  have  seen."  And 
presently  I  was  left  alone  to  my  happiness. 

How  long  it  lasted  I  cannot  tell;  but  presently 
I  seemed  less  free,  less  light  of  heart;  and  soon  I 


232  The  Thread  of  Gold 

knew  that  I  was  bound;  and  after  a  space  I  woke 
into  the  world  again,  and  took  up  my  burden  of 
cares. 

But  for  all  that  I  have  a  sense  of  hopefulness  left 
which  I  think  will  not  quite  desert  me.  From 
what  dim  cell  of  the  brain  my  vision  rose,  I  know 
not,  but  though  it  came  to  me  in  so  precise  and  clear 
a  form,  yet  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  something 
deep  and  true  has  been  revealed  to  me,  some  glimpse 
of  pure  heaven  and  bright  air,  that  lies  outside  our 
little  fretted  hves. 

XLI 

I  HAVE  spoken  above,  I  know  well,  of  things  in 
which  I  have  no  skill  to  speak;  I  know  no  philoso- 
phy or  metaphysics;  to  look  into  a  philosophical 
book  is  to  me  like  looking  into  a  room  piled  up 
with  bricks,  the  pure  materials  of  thought;  they 
have  no  meaning  for  me,  until  the  beautiful  mind  of 
some  literary  architect  has  built  them  into  a  house 
of  life;  but  just  as  a  shallow  pool  can  reflect  the 
dark  and  infinite  spaces  of  night,  pierced  with  stars, 
so  in  my  own  shallow  mind  these  perennial  difficul- 
ties, which  lie  behind  all  that  we  do  and  say,  can 
be  for  a  moment  mirrored. 

The  only  value  that  such  thoughts  can  have  in 
life  is  that  they  should  teach  us  to  live  in  a  frank 


The  Eternal  Will  233 

and  sincere  mood,  waiting  patiently  for  the  Lord, 
as  the  old  Psalmist  said.  JNly  own  philosophy  is  a 
very  simple  one,  and,  if  I  could  only  be  truer  to  it,  it 
would  bring  me  the  strength  which  I  lack.  It  is 
this ;  that  being  what  we  are,  such  frail,  mysterious, 
inexplicable  beings,  we  should  wait  humbly  and 
hopefully  upon  God,  not  attempting,  nor  even 
wishing,  to  make  up  our  minds  upon  these  deep 
secrets,  only  determined  that  we  will  be  true  to  the 
inner  light,  and  that  we  will  not  accept  any  solution 
which  depends  for  its  success  upon  neglecting  or 
overlooking  any  of  the  phenomena  with  which  we 
are  confronted.  We  find  ourselves  placed  in  the 
world,  in  definite  relations  with  certain  people,  en- 
dowed with  certain  qualities,  vidth  faults  and  fears, 
with  hopes  and  joys,  with  likes  and  dislikes.  Evil 
haunts  us  like  a  shadow,  and  though  it  menaces  our 
happiness,  we  fall  again  and  again  under  its  dom- 
inion; in  the  depths  of  our  spirit  a  voice  speaks, 
which  assures  us  again  and  again  that  truth  and 
purity  and  love  are  the  best  and  dearest  things  that 
we  can  desire ;  and  that  voice,  however,  imperfectly, 
I  try  to  obey,  because  it  seems  the  strongest  and 
clearest  of  all  the  voices  that  call  to  me.  I  try  to 
regard  all  experience,  whether  sweet  or  bitter,  fair 
or  foul,  as  sent  me  by  the  great  and  awful  power 
that  put  me  where  I  am.  The  strongest  and  best 
things  in  the  world  seem  to  me  to  be  peace  and 


234  The  Thread  of  Gold 

tranquillity,  and  the  same  hidden  power  seems  to  be 
leading  me  thither;  and  to  lead  me  all  the  faster 
whenever  I  try  not  to  fret,  not  to  grieve,  not  to  des- 
pair. "  Casting  all  your  care  upon  him,  for  he 
careth  for  you"  says  the  Divine  Word;  and  the 
more  that  I  follow  intuition  rather  than  reason,  the 
nearer  I  seem  to  come  to  the  truth.  I  have  lately 
wasted  much  fruitless  thought  over  an  anxious  de- 
cision, weighing  motives,  forecasting  possibihties. 
I  knew  at  the  time  how  useless  it  all  was,  and  that 
my  course  would  be  made  clear  at  the  right  moment ; 
and  I  will  tell  the  story  of  how  it  was  made  clear,  as 
testimony  to  the  perfect  guidance  of  the  divine 
hand.  I  was  taking  a  journey,  and  the  weary  pro- 
cess was  going  on  in  my  mind ;  every  possible  argu- 
ment for  and  against  the  step  was  being  reviewed 
and  tested;  I  could  not  read,  I  could  not  even  look 
abroad  upon  the  world.  The  train  drew  up  at  a 
dull  suburban  station,  where  our  tickets  were  col- 
lected. The  signal  was  given,  and  we  started.  It 
was  at  this  moment  that  the  conviction  came,  and  I 
saw  how  I  must  act,  with  a  certainty  which  I  could 
not  gainsay  or  resist.  My  reason  had  anticipated 
the  opposite  decision,  but  I  had  no  longer  any 
doubt  or  hesitation.  The  only  question  was  how 
and  when  to  announce  the  result;  but  when  I  re- 
turned home  the  same  evening  there  was  the  letter 
waiting  for  me  which  gave  the  very  opportunity  I 


The  Eternal  Will  235 

desired;  and  I  have  since  learnt  without  surprise 
that  the  letter  was  being  penned  at  the  very  moment 
when  the  conviction  came  to  me. 

I  have  told  this  experience  in  detail,  because  it 
seems  to  me  to  be  a  very  perfect  example  of  the  sud- 
denness with  which  conviction  comes.  But  neither 
do  I  grudge  the  anxious  reveries  which  for  many 
days  had  preceded  that  conviction,  because  through 
them  I  learnt  something  of  the  inner  weakness  of 
my  nature.  But  the  true  secret  of  it  all  is  that  we 
ought  to  live  as  far  as  we  can  in  the  day,  the  hour, 
the  minute ;  to  waste  no  time  in  anxious  forecasting 
and  miserable  regrets,  but  just  do  what  lies  before 
us  as  faithfully  as  possible.  Gradually,  too,  one 
learns  that  the  restricting  of  what  is  called  religion 
to  certain  times  of  prayer  and  definite  solemnities  is 
the  most  pitiful  of  all  mistakes;  life  lived  with  the 
intuition  that  I  have  indicated  is  all  religion.  The 
most  trivial  incident  has  to  be  interpreted;  every 
word  and  deed  and  thought  becomes  full  of  a  deep 
significance.  One  has  no  longer  any  anxious  sense 
of  duty;  one  desires  no  longer  either  to  impress  or 
influence;  one  aims  only  at  guarding  the  qual- 
ity of  all  one  does  or  says — or  rather  the  very 
word  "  aims  "  is  a  wrong  one ;  there  is  no  longer 
any  aim  or  effort,  except  the  effort  to  feel  which 
way  the  gentle  guiding  hand  would  have  us  to 
go;  the  only  sorrow  that  is  possible  is  w4ien  we 


236  The  Thread  of  Gold 

rather     perversely     follow     our     own     will     and 
pleasure. 

The  reason  why  I  desire  this  book  to  say  its 
few  words  to  my  brothers  and  sisters  of  this  life, 
without  any  intrusion  of  personality,  is  that  I  am 
so  sure  of  the  truth  of  what  I  say,  that  I  would 
not  have  any  one  distracted  from  the  principles  I 
have  tried  to  put  into  words,  by  being  able  to  com- 
pare it  with  my  own  weak  practice.  I  am  so  far 
from  having  attained;  I  have,  I  know,  so  many 
weary  leagues  to  traverse  yet,  that  I  would  not 
have  my  faithless  and  perverse  wanderings  known. 
But  the  secret  waits  for  all  who  can  throw  aside 
convention  and  insincerity,  who  can  make  the  sacri- 
fice with  a  humble  heart,  and  throw  themselves 
utterly  and  fearlessly  into  the  hands  of  God.  So- 
cieties, organisations,  ceremonies,  forms,  authority, 
dogma — they  are  all  outside;  silently  and  secretly, 
in  the  solitude  of  one's  heart,  must  the  lonely  path 
be  found;  but  the  slender  track  once  beneath  our 
feet,  all  the  complicated  relations  of  the  world  be- 
come clear  and  simple.  We  have  no  need  to 
change  our  path  in  life,  to  seek  for  any  human 
guide,  to  desire  new  conditions,  because  we  have  the 
one  Guide  close  to  us,  closer  than  friend  or  brother 
or  lover,  and  we  know  that  we  are  set  where  he 
would  have  us  to  be.  Such  a  belief  destroys  in  a 
flash  all  our  embarrassment  in  dealing  with  others, 


The  Eternal  Will  237 

all  our  anxieties  in  dealing  \\qth  ourselves.  In 
dealing  with  ourselves  we  shall  only  desire  to  be 
faithful,  fearless,  and  sincere;  in  dealing  w^ith 
others  we  shall  try  to  be  patient,  tender,  apprecia- 
tive, and  hopeful.  If  we  have  to  blame,  we  shall 
blame  without  bitterness,  without  the  outraged 
sense  of  personal  vanit}'-  that  brings  anger  with  it. 
If  we  can  praise,  we  shall  praise  with  generous 
prodigality;  we  shall  not  think  of  ourselves  as  a 
centre  of  influence,  as  radiating  example  and  pre- 
cept; but  we  shall  know  our  own  failures  and  diffi- 
culties, and  shall  realise  as  strongly  that  others  are 
led  likewise,  and  that  each  is  the  Father's  peculiar 
care,  as  we  realise  it  about  ourselves.  There  will 
be  no  thrusting  of  ourselves  to  the  front,  nor  an  un- 
easy lingering  upon  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  be- 
cause we  shall  know  that  our  place  and  our  course 
are  defined.  We  may  crave  for  happiness,  but  we 
shall  not  resent  sorrow.  The  dreariest  and  saddest 
day  becomes  the  inevitable,  the  true  setting  for  our 
soul;  we  must  drink  the  draught,  and  not  fear  to 
taste  its  bitterest  savour;  it  is  the  Father's  cup. 
That  a  Christian,  in  such  a  mood,  can  concern  him- 
self mth  what  is  called  the  historical  basis  of  the 
Gospels,  is  a  thought  which  can  only  be  met  b}^  a 
smile;  for  there  stands  the  record  of  perhaps  the 
only  life  ever  lived  upon  earth  that  conformed  it- 
self, at  every  moment,  in  the  darkest  experiences 


238  The  Thread  of  Gold 

that  life  could  bring,  entirely  and  utterly  to  the  Di- 
vine Will.  One  who  walks  in  the  light  that  I  have 
spoken  of  is  as  inevitably  a  Christian  as  he  is  a  hu- 
man being,  and  is  as  true  to  the  spirit  of  Christ  as 
he  is  indifferent  to  the  human  accretions  that  have 
gathered  round  the  august  message. 

The  possession  of  such  a  secret  involves  no  re- 
tirement from  the  world,  no  breaking  of  ties,  no 
ecclesiastical  exercises,  no  endeavour  to  penetrate 
obscure  ideas.  It  is  as  simple  as  the  sunlight  and 
the  air.  It  involves  no  protest,  no  phrase,  no  re- 
nunciation. Its  protest  will  be  an  unconcerned  ex- 
ample, its  phrase  will  be  a  perfect  sincerity  of 
speech,  its  renunciation  will  be  what  it  does,  not 
what  it  abstains  from  doing.  It  will  go  or  stay  as 
the  inner  voice  bids  it.  It  will  not  attempt  the  im- 
possible, nor  the  novel.  Very  clearly,  from  hour  to 
hour,  the  path  will  be  made  plain,  the  weakness  for- 
tified, the  sin  purged  away.  It  will  judge  no  other 
life,  it  will  seek  no  goal ;  it  will  sometimes  strive  and 
cry,  it  will  sometimes  rest;  it  will  move  as  gently 
and  simply  in  unison  with  the  one  supreme  will,  as 
the  tide  moves  beneath  the  moon,  piled  in  the  central 
deep  with  all  its  noises,  flooding  the  mud-stained 
waterway,  where  the  ships  ride  together,  or  creep- 
ing softly  upon  the  pale  sands  of  some  sequestered 
bay. 


Until  the  Evening  239 

XLII 

I  STOP  sometimes  on  a  landing  in  an  old  house, 
where  I  often  stay,  to  look  at  a  dusky,  faded  water- 
colour  that  hangs  upon  the  wall.  I  do  not  think 
its  technical  merit  is  great,  but  it  somehow  has  the 
poetical  quality.  It  represents,  or  seems  to  repre- 
sent, a  piece  of  high  open  ground,  down-land  or 
heath,  with  a  few  low  bushes  growing  there,  sprawl- 
ing and  wind-brushed;  a  road  crosses  the  fore- 
ground, and  dips  over  to  the  plain  beyond,  a  forest 
tract  full  of  dark  woodland,  dappled  by  open  spaces. 
There  is  a  long  faint  distant  line  of  hills  on  the  hori- 
zon. The  time  appears  to  be  just  after  sunset, 
when  the  sky  is  still  full  of  a  pale  liquid  light,  be- 
fore objects  have  lost  their  colour,  but  are  just  be- 
ginning to  be  tinged  with  dusk.  In  the  road  stands 
the  figure  of  a  man,  with  his  back  turned,  his  hand 
shading  his  eyes  as  he  gazes  out  across  the  plain. 
He  appears  to  be  a  wayfarer,  and  to  be  weary  but 
not  dispirited.  There  is  a  look  of  serene  and  sober 
content  about  him,  how  communicated  I  know  not. 
He  would  seem  to  have  far  to  go,  but  yet  to  be  cer- 
tainly drawing  nearer  to  his  home,  which  indeed  he 
seems  to  discern  afar  off.  The  picture  bears  the 
simple  legend.  Until  the  evening. 

This  design  seems  always  to  be  charged  for  me 
with  a  beautiful  and  grave  meaning.    Just  so  would 


240  The  Thread  of  Gold 

I  draw  near  to  the  end  of  my  pilgrimage,  wearied 
but  tranquil,  assured  of  rest  and  welcome.  The 
freshness  and  blithe  eagerness  of  the  morning  are 
over,  the  solid  hours  of  sturd}^  progress  are  gone,  the 
heat  of  the  day  is  past,  and  only  the  gentle  descent 
among  the  shadows  remains,  with  cool  airs  blowing 
from  darkling  thickets,  laden  with  woodland  scents, 
and  the  rich  fragrance  of  rushy  dingles.  Ere  the 
night  falls  the  wayfarer  will  push  the  familiar  gate 
open,  and  see  the  lamplit  windows  of  home,  with 
the  dark  chimneys  and  gables  outlined  against  the 
green  sky.  Those  that  love  him  are  awaiting  him, 
listening  for  the  footfall  to  draw  near. 

Is  it  not  possible  to  attain  this?  And  yet  how 
often  does  it  seem  to  be  the  fate  of  a  human  soul  to 
stumble,  like  one  chased  and  haunted,  with  dazed 
and  terrified  air,  and  hurried  piteous  phrase,  down 
the  darkening  track.  Yet  one  should  rather  ap- 
proach God,  bearing  in  careful  hands  the  priceless 
and  precious  gift  of  life,  ready  to  restore  it  if  it  be 
his  will.  God  grant  us  so  to  live,  in  courage  and 
trust,  that,  when  he  calls  us,  we  may  pass  willingly 
and  with  a  quiet  confidence  to  the  gate  that  opens 
into  tracts  unknown ! 


Conclusion  241 


CONCLUSION 

And  now  I  will  try  if  I  can  in  a  few  words  to  sum 
up  what  the  purpose  of  this  little  volume  has  been, 
these  pages  torn  from  my  hook  of  life,  though  I 
hope  that  some  of  my  readers  may,  before  now,  have 
discerned  it  for  theinselves.  The  Thread  of  Gold 
has  two  chief  qualities.  It  is  bright,  and  it  is 
strong;  it  gleams  with  a  still  and  precious  light  in 
the  darkness,  glowing  with  the  reflected  radiance 
of  the  little  lamp  that  we  carry  to  guide  our  feet, 
and  adding  to  the  ray  some  rich  tinge  from  its  own 
goodly  heart;  and  it  is  stroiig  too;  it  cannot  easily 
be  broken;  it  leads  a  man  faithfully  through  the 
dim  passages  of  the  cave  in  which  he  wanders^  with 
the  dark  earth  piled  above  his  head. 

The  two  qualities  that  we  should  keep  with  us  in 
our  journey  through  a  world  where  it  seems  that  so 
much  must  be  dark,  are  a  certain  rich  fiery  essence, 
a  glowing  ardour  of  spirit,  a  mind  of  lofty  temper, 
athirst  for  all  that  is  noble  and  beautiful.  That 
first;  and  to  that  we  must  add  a  certain  soberness 
and  sedateness  of  7nood,  a  smiling  tranquillity,  a 
true  directness  of  aim,  that  should  lead  us  not  to 
form  our  ideas  and  opinions  too  swiftly  and  too 
firmly;  for  then  we  suffer  from  an  anxious  vexation 

i5 


242  The  Thread  of  Gold 

*when  experience  contradicts  hope,  when  things  turn 
out  different  from  what  we  had  desired  and  sup- 
posed. We  should  deal  with  life  in  a  generous  and 
high-hearted  mood,  giving  men  credit  for  lofty  aims 
and  noble  imaginings,  and  not  be  cast  down  if  we 
do  not  see  these  purposes  blazing  and  glowing  on 
the  surface  of  things;  we  should  believe  that  such 
great  motives  are  there  even  if  we  cannot  see  them; 
and  then  we  should  sustain  our  lively  expectations 
with  a  deep  and  faithful  confidence,  assured  that  we 
are  being  tenderly  and  wisely  led,  and  that  the 
things  which  the  Father  shows  us  by  the  way,  if 
they  bewilder,  and  disappoint,  and  even  terrify  us, 
have  yet  some  great  and  wonderful  meaning,  if  we 
can  but  interpret  them  rightly.  Nay,  that  the  very 
delaying  of  these  secrets  to  draw  near  to  our  souls, 
holds  within  it  a  strong  and  temperate  virtue  for 
our  spirits. 

Neither  of  these  great  qualities,  ardour  and  tran- 
quillity, can  stand  alone;  if  we  aim  merely  at  en- 
thusiasm, the  fire  grows  cold,  the  world  grows 
dreary,  and  we  lapse  into  a  cynical  mood  of  bitter- 
ness, as  the  mortal  flame  burns  low. 

Nor  7n,ust  we  aim  at  mere  tranquillity;  for  so 
we  may  fall  into  a  mere  placid  acquiescence,  a  selfish 
inaction;  our  peace  must  be  heartened  by  eager- 
ness, our  zest  calmed  by  serenity.  If  we  follow  the 
fire  alone^  we  become  restless  and  dissatisfied;  if  we 


Conclusion  243 

seek  only  for  peace,  we  become  like  the  patient 
beasts  of  the  field. 

I  would  wish,  though  I  grow  old  and  grey -haired, 
a  hundred  times  a  day  to  ask  why  things  are  as  they 
are,  and  to  desire  that  they  were  otherwise;  and 
again  a  hundred  times  a  day  I  would  thank  God 
that  they  are  as  they  are,  and  praise  him  for  show- 
ing me  his  will  rather  than  my  own.  For  the  secret 
lies  in  this;  that  we  must  not  follow  our  own  im- 
pulses, and  thus  grow  pettish  and  self-willed; 
neither  must  we  float  feebly  upon  the  will  of  God, 
like  a  branch  that  spins  in  an  eddy;  rather  we  must 
try  to  put  our  utmost  energy  in  line  with  the  will  of 
God,  hasten  with  all  our  might  where  he  calls  us, 
and  turn  our  back  as  resolutely  as  we  can  when  he 
bids  us  go  no  further;  as  an  eager  dog  will  intently 
await  his  master  s  choice,  as  to  which  of  two  paths 
he  may  desire  to  take;  but  the  way  once  indicated, 
he  springs  forward,  elate  and  glad,  rejoicing  with 
all  his  inight. 

He  leads  me.  He  leads  me;  but  He  has  also  given 
me  this  wild  and  restless  heart,  these  untamed  de- 
sires; not  that  I  may  follow  them  and  obey  them, 
but  that  I  may  patiently  discern  His  will,  and  do 
it  to  the  uttermost. 

Father,  be  patient  with  me,  for  I  yield  myself  to 
Thee;  Thou  hast  given  me  a  desirous  heart,  and 


244  The  Thread  of  Gold 

/  have  a  thousand  times  g07ie  astray  after  vain 
shadows^  and  found  no  abiding  joy.  I  have  been 
weary  many  times,  and  sad  often;  and  I  have  been 
light  of  heart  and  very  glad;  hut  my  sadness  and 
my  weariness,  my  lightness  and  my  joy  have  only 
blessed  me,  whenever  I  have  shared  them  with  Thee. 
I  have  shut  myself  up  in  a  perverse  loneliness,  I 
have  closed  the  door  of  my  heart,  miserable  that  I 
am,  even  upon  Thee.  And  Thou  hast  waited 
smiling,  till  I  knew  that  I  had  no  joy  apart  from 
Thee.  Only  uphold  me,  only  enfold  me  in  Thy 
arms,  and  I  shall  be  safe;  for  I  know  that  nothing 
can  divide  us,  except  my  own  wilful  heart;  we  for- 
get and  are  forgotten,  but  Thou  alone  rememher- 
est;  and  if  I  forget  Thee,  at  least  I  know  that  Thou 
forgettest  not  me. 


i 


I 

i 


Date  Due 

<$) 

UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

111    i;   1    III Mill 


AA    000  609  884    2 


